The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 45, Note on Digital ProductionCreation of machine-readable edition.Cornell University Library1090 page images in volumeCornell University LibraryIthaca, NY1999ABP2287-0045/moa/cent/cent0045/

Restricted to authorized users at Cornell University and the University of Michigan. These materials may not be redistributed.

The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 45, Note on Digital Production0045000The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 45, Note on Digital ProductionA-B

VOL. XLV.
THE CENTURY MAGAZINE.
NOVEMBER, 1892.
A RUSSIAN NATIONAL ARTIST.
WITH PICTURES BY ILVA REPIN.
No. i.
A NATIONAL artistan artist who is
equally at home in historical subjects; in
scenes from modern life, ranging from the court
to the peasant; in portraits, in interiors, and out-
door lights, provided only that he be not asked
to conform to the style of any set school,
or to seek his inspiration outside of his native
landthis is a rare phenomenon at the present
day, when many men first cultivate assiduously
a certain school, too often foreign, and then
proceed to seek their subjects in all lands ex-
cept their own.
But this phenomenon we meet in the most
famous of Russian painters, Ilya Evfimovitch
R~pin. Even R~pin, however, has a predi
lection for certain parts of his country, and
his heart and brush are chiefly dedicated t~
that Little Russia where he was born and
where the days of his humble childhood were
passed.
Little Russia is not much more than a name to
those who regard St. Petersburg and Moscow
as representing the vast empire of the Tzar,
but its history is so full of poetry and chivalry
that it may be classed with romance even for
those who find facts dull and information heavy.
~ Far from the modern center of Russias life,
from the capital of its commerce, its machine-
organized army, its conventional court and
officials, from theT snows and the birch and fir
forests of the full-fledged empire of the North,
lies the ancient capital of the infant nation, in
the far South, the land of poetry, of legend,
and of song. Kieff; cradled in the wide steppes,
amid vivid sunlight and waving plume-grass,
guarded by stiff, sentinel poplars, and raised
high in air upon green hills, above the broad
blue Dny~pr, still remains, in the hearts and
the reverent affection of Russians, the Mother
of all Russian Cities.
From the ninth century Kieff has been the
heart of the steppes. For a very long time the
steppes of the southwest, which bear their pedi-
gree in their name of Little Russia, formed the
chief portion of the Russian sovereigns realm,
and its ownership carried with it the much-
coveted, hotly contested title of Grand Prince
Copyright, 1892, by THE CENTURY Co. All rights reserved.
THE ATAMAN (CHIEF) OF THE COSSACES.4 A RUSSIAN NATIONAL ARTIST
(Grand Duke, as it is usually translated), and
supremacy over the myriad other warring,
petty princes of the growing empires early
days. Across the steppes surged the hordes of
Asia, which overran Europe in the dark ages;
and, in later centuries, when Kieff; the sacred
city of monasteries and churches, the goal of
pilgrimages, had been set like a gleaming jewel
in the Dny~prs rare crown of wooded hills, its
possession was fought for, in many a bloody
battle, by Poles and Russians, by Turks from
Stamboul and by Tatars from the Crimea, the
Volga, and the Don. Devil take you, steppes;
how beautiful you are! cries G6gol, the child
of the steppes, who has immortalized them and
their wild cavaliers in musical prose, and has
given us exquisite descriptions of the region,
and tales filled with the dreamy poetry of the
Ukraine.
As we gaze from the cliffs of Kieff across the
Dny~pr, and out over that grassy plain, that
mainland ocean, upon whose emerald the flit-
ting clouds cast shadows of gold, purple, and
bronze, and which hardlyyields
in inexhaustible fascination to
what the Russian ballads term
expressively the oceansea,~~
we feel as though, at any mo-
ment, we might behold Tffras
B~ilba and his gallant sons
ride forth from the lower town
at our feet. There still lies the
monastic academy where those
young hawks had completed
their curiously mixed educa-
tion, at which their father
mocked until the younger,
Andrii, pummeled him into
respect, as was supposed to be
fitting, in view of the fact that
they were on their way to the
Setch, where education of any
sort was nearly superfluous,
and where well-aimed blows
were rated at their proper
value.
Some distance below Kieff;
the Dny6pr descends in falls.
At this point the kazdks, centuries ago, estab-
lished their military republic of Zapor6zhya
( Beyond the Falls ), whose barrack capital,
the Setch, wherein no xvoman might set foot,
lay on an island in the stream. The famous
band of Zapor6zhtzi was a motley crew of
braves, composed of discontented men from
all parts of the countryof those who had
fled from towns to escape petty oppressions or
taxes; of those who had fled from the country to
evade land-service, or other impediments to the
absolute liberty which their souls craved; of
those who merely wished to indulge in the inborn
Russian love of a roving life in the open air.
Be patient,kaz~k, thou shaltbeAtamffn [chief]
some day! was the democratic motto which
their rough elections fully bore out, and which
corresponded to the American boys motto
touching the Presidency. They owned allegi-
ance to no ruler for their debatable land betxveen
many kingdoms; but the Sult8n of Turkey, the
King of Poland, and the Tzar of Muscovy al-
ternately sought and betrayed their friendship,
while the kazffks, in turn, as blithely changed
their loyalty, according to circumstances and
booty. Southern Russia lay unprotected on the
east, and suffered severely from the incursions of
the Turks and Tatars, who carried orthodox
Christians away into captivity by tens of thou-
sands, and sold them like cattle in the marts of
Stamboul, Trebizond, and other Eastern towns.
The songs of the Russian people at this epoch
bewailed the lot of their brethren in captivity,
waxed wroth over the Christians who betrayed
their faith, and rejoiced over those who made
their escape by all sorts of wiles. Succor came
only from the Zapor6zhtzi. These braves formed
a stout defense for their peaceful brethren, and
not only protected their boundaries from in-
A FRAGMENT FROM THE ANSWEE TO THE SULTAN.ENGRAVED BY -i~ DAVIDSON.
A MAID OF LITTLE RUSSIA (KHARKOFF GOVERNMENT).
z
0
LL~
z
U
z
0
U
0
U
~T2
H
z
0
U
z
LI~
0
H
0
H A RUSSIAN NATIONAL ARTIST 7
cursions by the Mussulmans, but frequently
descended the Dny6pr, in light barks, to the
Black Sea, and fell upon the enemys coast
towns. Having plundered and set fire to them,
they rescued the captive Christians andbrought
them back to their native land.
It is an incident in the life of a later date
that R6pin has chosen for his great picture,
which was shown in the Perambulatory Ex-
hibition this spring, and immediately bought
by the Emperor. Toward the close of the
seventeenth century, Ivan Dmftritch Syerko
was the Atamftn of these modern knights-er-
rant. The Zapor6zhtzi were at the zenith of
and types which, though assimilated, in a mea-
sure, to one warlike type, are as varied as their
garments, the fruits of many a foray, which
range from gold-embroidered velvet to home-
spun, or as their accoutrements, which run the
complete gamut, from Turkish matchlocks in-
laid xvith gold, mother-of-pearl, and turquoise,
to brass-capped pipes of Karelian birch-root,
such as can be bought at the present day for
a few cents in the popular markets of Kieff
and other towns. The only uniformity about
the company consists in the obligatory tuft of
fluttering hair, a sort of scalp-lock, which, re-
calls the Tatar queue of the Chinese.
ENGRAVED ES P. PdTKEN.
A COSSACK OF THE STEPPE.
their power. Fifteen thousand pickedjanizaries It is not difficult to diVine that the letter be-
had perished by night, under the walls of Za- gins with the proverb An unbidden guest is
por6zhya, having been abandoned by their worse than a Tatar, which, under the circum-
frightened allies, the Tatars. In i 68o, the Sul- stances, was a biting insult; and, judging from
tan Mohammed IV. sent the Zapor6zhtzi a the gestures directed toward the steppe where
formal threat that he would make another de- other members of the band are performing their
scent upon them, which, this time, should be celebrated feats of horsemanship beyond the
annihilating. They replied in a letter filled line of tents, since they were, evidently, on an
with taunts and rude jests, and it is the inditing active campaign, it proceeds with a counter-
of this Answer to the Sultan which R6pin threat of a prompt and businesslike visit to
has represented in his spirited painting, and Stamboul. It was a bragging-match, the exact
which gives us a vivid idea of the personality counterpart of those which we find described
and the characteristics of this noted band. In in the epic songs of the tenth century as tak-
the center of the group, the regimental scribe ing place between the paladins of Prince
an important functionary where so few Vladimirs Table Round and the Tatar khans,
were skilled in the art of letters, like old Tfirass before the walls of Kieff.
sonsis seated at a rough trestle table. At These latest exponents of Russian chivalry
his left, Syerko presides over the assembly who occupied very much the same ground
with a sort of amused gravity. The scribes which was occupied by infant Russia in the
face is puckered with suppressed mirth at the tenth century, and rendered to western Europe
- impertinences which the assembled company the same service in the sixteenth and seven-
is engaged in dictating to him; the kaz~tks teenth centuries which Prince Vladimir and
are screaming with laughter over their literary his druzidiza rendered in the tenth are gone.
exercise, and present an array of countenances Those days of Zapor6zhyas glory have passed 8 A USSIAN NATIONAL ARTIST
away forever. Hetman Syerkos men carried
his hand with them on all their expeditions for
the period of seven years after his death, and
that withered hand led them always to victory.
Rut, early in the eighteenth century, soon after
Hetman Mazeppas treacheryto Peterthe Great,
the power and prestige of the kaz~ks declined.
Since then, the rich virgin soil of the steppes
has been gradually dedicated more and more
to agriculture, their extent has been greatly
curtailed, and the days of the last Russian chiv-
alry, in the medieval sense of indiscriminate
and reckless warfare, have vanished.
Repin himself is half a kazftk of the modern
style. His father was one of the kaz~ks whom
the Emperor Alexander I. settled, as military
colonists, in the government of Kh& rkoff, among
the steppes, on their return from the European
campaign of 1814, rechristening them Ublans.
The father served the old long term of twenty-
ye years, and our artist ranked in his youth
as a military colonist. He began his educa-
tion in the Topographical Institute. When
Alexander II. abolished these economico-mili-
tary colonies in 8~6, after they had done much
involuntary service as cultivating agencies, and
transferred the Institute to another part of
Russia, the little colonist, then twelve years
of age, went to learn painting from a painter of
church images. It was, no doubt, the best thing
that he could do, under the circumstances,
but this instruction by no means explains, to
one accustomed to the conventionality of fea-
ture and coloring imposed on image-painters,
R~pins present status as the finest portrait-
painter Russia has ever had, For three years
the lad painted images and small portraits from
nature, the latter evidently without sugges-
tion or instruction from his master, and distin-
guished himself to such a degree that contrac-
tors for churches came from a hundred versts
round about to seek his services. In his lei-
sure hours, on- holidays, the ambitious young
artist read and studied to prepare himself for
the goal of his ambition, for which he xvas also
hoarding his earnings the Academy of Arts.
His dream was realized when he reached St.
Petersburg, in November, 1863, with only
twenty dollars in his pocket, and found him-
self face to face with the problem of existing
through the severe winter, and getting his
instruction.
He has given us a glimpse of his extreme
poverty, and of the sufferings which he endured
in the years which intervened between his en-
trance to the Academy in 1864 and his gradu-
ation in 187i, in his account of the hardships
of his fellow-student, Antok6lsky, the most
noted of Russian sculptors. That is a period
over which it is best to pass lightly. It ended
when his picture, on a theme of his own selec-
tion, and painted in addition to the Academi-
cal program, was bought by a Grand Duke.
This picture, his famous Towers of Barks on
the Volga, shows the influence on his career of
the progressive and talented artist Kramsk6y,
who had been his master, without pay, all this
time, since R6pin cared nothing for the pro-
fessors at the Academy, and used that build-
ing only for working and for the lectures.
Kramsk6y was a young artist who had rebelled
against the antiquated, conventional Academy,
THE CONSPIRATORS. A RUSSIAN NATIONAL AR 1ST. 9
and had founded the Thciety for Perambulatory
Exhibitions, which still thrives, and to which
R6pin is a distinguished contributor. During
the three years which he spent abroad at the
expense of the government, chiefly in Paris, he
felt a lack of power, an uncertainty as to what
he should undertake, and he pined for his na-
tive land. He seemed to have an intuition that
national subj ects were to be his strong point. Of
the two paintings which (with studies) date from
this period, a fantasy from oneofthe mostcharm-
ing of the Epic Songs, representing Sadk6
the rich Guest (merchant) of Novgorod, in the
submarine realm of the Water King, hangs in
the private apartments of the Empress of Rus-
sia,in one of the summer palaces. In fact, if
one wishes to study R4ins works, one must
seek them in the Imperial palaces, and in the
gallery of Mr. Tr6tiakoff, the merchant prince
of Moscow, who is the M~ecenas of Russian
painters. Who that has seen them will ever for-
get Ivan the Terrible Killing his Son Ioann,
The Return of the Exile, or the striking por-
trait of Sut6ieff (the peasant secretary whose
chief disciple is Count Lyeff Tolst6y), with its
pitilessly truthful rendering of the narrow head,
lono- blond locks falling over the small, pene-
trating but not remarkably intelligent eyes, of a
typical Great Russian peasant? Inimitable por-
trait, of Count Tolst6y keep them company,
and the present unpublished sketch of the great
VOL~ XLV2.
author, immersed in a book, and stretched out
on the couch on which he was born, is one of
many made at the Counts country estate.
In this unpretentious country home, at Yas-
naya Poly~na, this leather-covered couch har-
monizes with the rest of the severely plain
furnishing of the xvhole house, and, in particu-
lar, of the famous study in which it stands. This
study clearly shows that it is the central point
in which all the great authors varied interests
meet. Under the whitewashed vault of the ceil-
ing stand bookcases, a scythe, a spade; a mis-
cellaneous collection of rude footgear is piled
on the rough floor of boards; a whetstone in
a leather case and a saw hang on the plain
white wall, in company with several crumpled
felt hats and peasant coats of yellow and brown
homespun, and the portraits of William Lloyd
Garrison, Charles Dickens, and other celebrities
who are favorites with the owner of the room;
the writing-table is loaded with correspondence,
books, pamphlets, and newspapers from many
lands, as well as with his own manuscripts
such are the surroundings among which R6pin
introduces us to Count Tolst6y. Albeit the
small, piercing eyes are concealed, his earnest
face is sternest when he is engaged in reading
the multitudinous publications which feed his
omnivorous appetite for literature of all sorts
and his universal interest in his fellow-men.
His hair is becoming gray, and rarely conde
ENGRAVED BY C. BCHWARZBURGER.
ARREST IN A VILLAGE.
(A
(A
H
H
0
LT2
H A RUSSIAN NATIONAL ARTIST II
scends to lie smooth above the prominent brow,
under any circumstances. Assuredly, he was
never known to take such heed of his some-
what delicate health as to throw across his legs
the rug which we see in the picture. The ar-
tist, for purely decorative purposes, must have
seized a blanket from the bed one of those
highly colored and patterned blankets which
are used everywhere in Russia, and which the
inexperienced foreigner, on first acquaintance,
invariably dubs horse-cloths. Whatever the
Count may have been reading, when Ripin
drew him in such apparent repose, poetry,
philosophy, theology, or flction,we may be
sure that his mind was active, and that his judg-
ment on the work was keen and sure, so far as
its literary value was concerned. Even the moral
and theological views, which bias his judgment
in other respects, are precious for their property
of arousing thought and discpssion.
If ancient military Russia has vanished, an-
cient religious Russia has not, and R~pin is
equally happy in rendering a characteristic
scene from this same historic Little Russia
whence he springs, and which he loves,
that bridges over the gap of centuries between
his fierce but pious Zapor6zhtzi of the steppes
of old, and the peaceful and pious inhabitants
of the steppe towns of the present day. The
procession of The Revealed Image, also
from this years exhibition, has walked bodily
upon the artists canvas from the government
of Khiirkoff. The glowing heat of summer
broods over the scene. A wonder-working
ik6n has been revealed as such by a miracle;
a procession of honor has been formed, and
the sacred image is being carried about rev-
erently to all the prominent houses and points
in the neighborhood. The neighborhood has
received a liberal interpretation as to boun-
dary, and the image is now on the highway,
passing through a bit of forest. Similar pro-
cessions are common everywhere in Russia,
especially during the summer months. All the
sacred images of a town or hamlet, headed by
the most noted of them, and accompanied by
church banners, lanterns, intoning priests, and
chanting choir, are borne in a Procession of
the Cross on a long round, in commemoration
of some notable interposition of Providence
in bygone years such as the departure of
the French from Moscow in 1812, which is
thus celebrated in the Kremlin, with great
pomp, on the T 2th of October of every year.
The inhabitants look upon these occasions as
holidays, and people from all ranks in life fall
in in the rear, join in the prayers at the sta-
tions where the procession halts, sip the con-
secrated water for health of the stream
which is blessed, contend for the honor (which
is granted as a signal favor) of carrying the
heavy images, or of seeming to do so by touch-
ing them with the tip of the finger as they walk
close beside them. With the procession of
The Revealed Image the case is slightly
different, but only in the fact that miracles and
cures are awaited from moment to moment.
The halt and the lame bow before the won-
der-working ik6n, with heads laid in the dust
of the road, that the Virgin (the Revealed Im-
age is always, or nearly always, a Virgin)
may pass over them and heal them. The de-
vout general, without whom no Russian scene
is complete, pants along mopping his heated
brow, and the sturdy religious tramp, a/las
pilgrim, who is as indispensable to a land-
scape as the general, strides on with unwearied
enthusiasm in his crash foot-cloths and linden-
bast sandals. It all forms part of his nomadic
enjoyment, in company with the sun, wind,
and dust, rain, mud, and open air, xvith a crust
begged here and a copper begged there,
K/zr/s/i rddi (for Christs sake), to be expended
in fiery cold tea. The prominent ladies of
the town, those who, by birth and position,
are entitled to the privilege of bonnets and
parasols, assert their rights to a leading place
in the procession; while the peasant maids
and men, in their gay, picturesque costumes,
break their way through the underbrush on
foot3 or in their rude /elfrga. The gigantic
deacon swings his censer of silver gilt, and
from his mouth, round as Giottos 0, framed
in massive cheeks and long, crisp locks, his
stentorian voice rolls forth in the rich intona-
tions of the ancient Slavonic ritual, which are
a perpetual delight to the musical ear.
But there is a darker side to this sunny, out-
door life of Little Russia, the midnight side.
The old restless spirit remains unchanged.
These regularfeatured, levelbr
eyed men and women of the Ukraine, much
handsomer than those of the North,such as
Ripin depicts for us in his Maiden of KhSr-
koff, are still addicted to fighting against
all government, in modern, underhand ways,
which are not an improvement upon the bold,
open methods of warfare of the Zapor6zhtzi.
Ever since the hatching of the conspiracy
against Alexander I., which broke out in the
Decembrist riots in St. Petersburg on that
sovereigns death in 1825, when Nicholas I.
came to the throne, Little Russia has been
noted for its secret societies and plots. There
is no line of painting in which R6pin, fine in
all lines, excels more than in seizing the very
heart of popular types and events. In his Ar-
rest in a Village, and his Conspirators, he
introduces us to some of the organizers of
these plots. There is nothing, it is true, to
show us the exact locality of these scenes.
But, while the types are national, it is moreT2 BE YOND THE LIMIT
than likely that they come from the artists fa-
vorite Little Russia. The roughly floored, low-
ceiled, ill-lighted room, in which the officers
of the law are unearthing treasonable docu-
ments, is the ordinary dwelling of the peasants
of almost any part of Russia. The prisoner,
with his delicate, determined face, which is
familiar to every one who has observed, let us
say, the throng of readers at the Imperial Pub-
lic Library in St. Petersburg, or any similar
assemblage, has been hiding in some peasants
izbd, and probably carrying on his hopeless
propaganda in a quiet village, after assisting
at some such midnight council of conspirators
as R6pin shows us. The very hair of the ear-
nest speaker, and of his intent hearers, whose
faces are illuminated, prudently, by the faint
light of a single candle, is suggestive; for al-
though most Russians, with the exception of
the close-trimmed army men (not including
some favored kazftks), still believe that the
Lord provided man with hair for warmth and
ornament,not for the purpose of clipping it to
the scalp, there are as many styles of wearing
it long as there are of getting rid of it. Who
that has had occasion to visit Russian post-
A DREAM lay on the rim
Of the horizon far and dim,
Where the sea and sky together
Shut in the golden weather;
The ships with stately ease,
Close to the steady breeze,
Drew on, and on, and on,
Pierced the limit and were gone.
The headlands in the sheen
Of orchards waxing green,
Were like billows of rare bloom;
The air was all perfume;
Great sea-birds overhead
On silent pinions sped;
All was so sweet and calm
That mere living was a balm.
and telegraph-offices does not recall with de-
light the inevitable pretty man, with the ec-
centric coiffure, who is to be found in every
station? The droop of these conspiring locks
is as significant as are the faces, or as is the
official in another picture, who is inspecting
the village school, and driving both master
and pupils to confusion with his examination.
For ten years Rfpin has lived in St. Pe-
tersburg, having found Moscow too narrow,
when he tried it for a short time on his return
from Paris. His charming studio, at the junc-
tion of two of the picturesque canals by which
the city is intersected, and not far from the
scene of G6gols tale, The Portrait, is filled
with objects of Russian manufacture, and its
walls are hung with portraits of the most fa-
mous men of the day. What next will come
form from the busy brain and hand of the
quiet, gentle genius, as different from the wild
kazfiks and tragic personages of his imagin-
ings as well could be, is a question which
enlists the interest of the Russian critics and
public every spring, and which, in the future,
may evoke the sympathy and interest of a
wider public.
Isabel F Hapgood.
But somewhere, far away,
A hint of sorrow lay;
A vague, deep longing stirred;
Some strain, as yet unheard
(Of music strange, to shake
The heart till it should break),
Was just beyond the rim
Of the horizon far and dim.
O land! 0 sky! 0 sea!
Is there no peace for me?
What shadowy dread is this
That hovers round my bliss?
Far as my vision goes
My tide of pleasure flows;
What lies beyond the rim
Of the horizon far and dim?
Maurice Tkomjso;z.
BEYOND THE LIMIT.

Maurice ThompsonThompson, MauriceBeyond the Limit12-13

T2 BE YOND THE LIMIT
than likely that they come from the artists fa-
vorite Little Russia. The roughly floored, low-
ceiled, ill-lighted room, in which the officers
of the law are unearthing treasonable docu-
ments, is the ordinary dwelling of the peasants
of almost any part of Russia. The prisoner,
with his delicate, determined face, which is
familiar to every one who has observed, let us
say, the throng of readers at the Imperial Pub-
lic Library in St. Petersburg, or any similar
assemblage, has been hiding in some peasants
izbd, and probably carrying on his hopeless
propaganda in a quiet village, after assisting
at some such midnight council of conspirators
as R6pin shows us. The very hair of the ear-
nest speaker, and of his intent hearers, whose
faces are illuminated, prudently, by the faint
light of a single candle, is suggestive; for al-
though most Russians, with the exception of
the close-trimmed army men (not including
some favored kazftks), still believe that the
Lord provided man with hair for warmth and
ornament,not for the purpose of clipping it to
the scalp, there are as many styles of wearing
it long as there are of getting rid of it. Who
that has had occasion to visit Russian post-
A DREAM lay on the rim
Of the horizon far and dim,
Where the sea and sky together
Shut in the golden weather;
The ships with stately ease,
Close to the steady breeze,
Drew on, and on, and on,
Pierced the limit and were gone.
The headlands in the sheen
Of orchards waxing green,
Were like billows of rare bloom;
The air was all perfume;
Great sea-birds overhead
On silent pinions sped;
All was so sweet and calm
That mere living was a balm.
and telegraph-offices does not recall with de-
light the inevitable pretty man, with the ec-
centric coiffure, who is to be found in every
station? The droop of these conspiring locks
is as significant as are the faces, or as is the
official in another picture, who is inspecting
the village school, and driving both master
and pupils to confusion with his examination.
For ten years Rfpin has lived in St. Pe-
tersburg, having found Moscow too narrow,
when he tried it for a short time on his return
from Paris. His charming studio, at the junc-
tion of two of the picturesque canals by which
the city is intersected, and not far from the
scene of G6gols tale, The Portrait, is filled
with objects of Russian manufacture, and its
walls are hung with portraits of the most fa-
mous men of the day. What next will come
form from the busy brain and hand of the
quiet, gentle genius, as different from the wild
kazfiks and tragic personages of his imagin-
ings as well could be, is a question which
enlists the interest of the Russian critics and
public every spring, and which, in the future,
may evoke the sympathy and interest of a
wider public.
Isabel F Hapgood.
But somewhere, far away,
A hint of sorrow lay;
A vague, deep longing stirred;
Some strain, as yet unheard
(Of music strange, to shake
The heart till it should break),
Was just beyond the rim
Of the horizon far and dim.
O land! 0 sky! 0 sea!
Is there no peace for me?
What shadowy dread is this
That hovers round my bliss?
Far as my vision goes
My tide of pleasure flows;
What lies beyond the rim
Of the horizon far and dim?
Maurice Tkomjso;z.
BEYOND THE LIMIT.SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE.
BY MRS. BURTON HARRISON,
Author of The Anglomaniacs, Flower de Hundred, etc.
WITH PICTURES BY C. B. GIBSON.
I.
BURST of fortissimo mu-
sic from the organ, which
had been dawdling over
themes from Wagners
operas, caused every head
in the seated congregation
to turn briskly around.
Some people stood up,
swaying to catch a first glimpse of the bride.
Outsiders, tucked away in undesirable back-
pews, went so far as to scramble upon the
cushioned seats.
It was, however, a false alarm. The middle
aisle, center of interest, developed nothing more
striking than a trim little usher, in pearl gloves
with a buttonhole of white carnations, convoy-
ing to her place of honor beyond the ribbon a
colossal lady with auburn front, red in the face,
and out of breath.
Conversation in pews reserved for the elect
of good society.
She: Hum! Bridegrooms maiden aunt,
suppressed generallyhow Freddy rushes her
along! Sent twelve silver soup-plates and a
huge tureen, when everybody knows soup is
served from behind the screen, and it would
take all one servants time to keep em clean
but she thinks she s paid her way well to
the front, poor soul!
He: Here s the grooms motherdeuced
fine woman yet is Mrs. Vernon. Who d be-
lieve she d a son of five-and-twenty? Hates
to admit it publicly, but is putting on the best
face she can.
She: Not her best face her second best.
I ye seen her improve on that. But then, this
half daylight, half electricity is abominably try-
ing. And she really does look very well, viewed
from the rear.
He: Clever, toothe way she s run the
family upwhen one thinks what the husband
was.
She: Does one ever think of him? By
the way, what was he soldier, sailor, tinker,
tailor, what?
He: Tinker, most likely, considering the
family brass. I saw him once coarse-grained
creature, epidermis like an elephant, diamond
in his shirt-front, and all that. Speculated
after the war in Virginia City mines, and made
a big fortune; then dropped dead of apoplexy,
and left it for her to spend. She sent her boy
to a good school; gave with a free hand to all
the charities; boy made friends everywhere;
went through Harvard like a streak; has
traveled, yachted, hunted, been in the best
sets ever since; is about to marry into one of
the proudest of the exclusive families of New
Yorkand there you are.~~
She: Oh! But he s really such a beauty,
dont youknow? Half the women in town have
been pulling caps for Jerry Vernon. And, after
all, what are the Hallidays but has-beens?
He: Take care. There s one of their
high-born ramifications glaring at you from the
next pewold lady with eye-glasses and a
snjff. Came up from Second Avenue in a horse-
carlooks like the unicorn on the British coat
of arms.~,
She: Gracious! It s the brides cousin or
something; let s change the subject. Oh! did
you hear poor Mrs. Jimmie Crosland could nt
go to the opera last night because that wretched,
jealous husband shut her nose in a wardrobe
door?
He: Really? Was nt theirs the last wed-
ding we came to in this church?
She: Of course. Dont you remember?
Regular peep-show; six chorus girls from the
opera, in white xT~eils, to sing The voice that
breathed oer Eden. They say she even hired
the pages to hold up her trainput em in
Charles II. wigs, and passed em off for little
brothers.
He: Exactly. One gets these theatrical
affairs so confoundedly mixed up. See, the
grooms mother is still upon her knees. A
woman could nt pray so conspicuously unless
in back seams from Worth.
She: For shame! How malicious you
men are! I should have said it s because
she s keeping Mrs. Vane-Benson standing in
the aisle for every one to see. You know they
have been at some trouble to corral relatives to
match the brides, and Mrs. Vane-Benson s
their trump card. How bored the poor rector
looks waiting in his bower of palms.
He: Queer how people marry, and bury,
3

SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE.
BY MRS. BURTON HARRISON,
Author of The Anglomaniacs, Flower de Hundred, etc.
WITH PICTURES BY C. B. GIBSON.
I.
BURST of fortissimo mu-
sic from the organ, which
had been dawdling over
themes from Wagners
operas, caused every head
in the seated congregation
to turn briskly around.
Some people stood up,
swaying to catch a first glimpse of the bride.
Outsiders, tucked away in undesirable back-
pews, went so far as to scramble upon the
cushioned seats.
It was, however, a false alarm. The middle
aisle, center of interest, developed nothing more
striking than a trim little usher, in pearl gloves
with a buttonhole of white carnations, convoy-
ing to her place of honor beyond the ribbon a
colossal lady with auburn front, red in the face,
and out of breath.
Conversation in pews reserved for the elect
of good society.
She: Hum! Bridegrooms maiden aunt,
suppressed generallyhow Freddy rushes her
along! Sent twelve silver soup-plates and a
huge tureen, when everybody knows soup is
served from behind the screen, and it would
take all one servants time to keep em clean
but she thinks she s paid her way well to
the front, poor soul!
He: Here s the grooms motherdeuced
fine woman yet is Mrs. Vernon. Who d be-
lieve she d a son of five-and-twenty? Hates
to admit it publicly, but is putting on the best
face she can.
She: Not her best face her second best.
I ye seen her improve on that. But then, this
half daylight, half electricity is abominably try-
ing. And she really does look very well, viewed
from the rear.
He: Clever, toothe way she s run the
family upwhen one thinks what the husband
was.
She: Does one ever think of him? By
the way, what was he soldier, sailor, tinker,
tailor, what?
He: Tinker, most likely, considering the
family brass. I saw him once coarse-grained
creature, epidermis like an elephant, diamond
in his shirt-front, and all that. Speculated
after the war in Virginia City mines, and made
a big fortune; then dropped dead of apoplexy,
and left it for her to spend. She sent her boy
to a good school; gave with a free hand to all
the charities; boy made friends everywhere;
went through Harvard like a streak; has
traveled, yachted, hunted, been in the best
sets ever since; is about to marry into one of
the proudest of the exclusive families of New
Yorkand there you are.~~
She: Oh! But he s really such a beauty,
dont youknow? Half the women in town have
been pulling caps for Jerry Vernon. And, after
all, what are the Hallidays but has-beens?
He: Take care. There s one of their
high-born ramifications glaring at you from the
next pewold lady with eye-glasses and a
snjff. Came up from Second Avenue in a horse-
carlooks like the unicorn on the British coat
of arms.~,
She: Gracious! It s the brides cousin or
something; let s change the subject. Oh! did
you hear poor Mrs. Jimmie Crosland could nt
go to the opera last night because that wretched,
jealous husband shut her nose in a wardrobe
door?
He: Really? Was nt theirs the last wed-
ding we came to in this church?
She: Of course. Dont you remember?
Regular peep-show; six chorus girls from the
opera, in white xT~eils, to sing The voice that
breathed oer Eden. They say she even hired
the pages to hold up her trainput em in
Charles II. wigs, and passed em off for little
brothers.
He: Exactly. One gets these theatrical
affairs so confoundedly mixed up. See, the
grooms mother is still upon her knees. A
woman could nt pray so conspicuously unless
in back seams from Worth.
She: For shame! How malicious you
men are! I should have said it s because
she s keeping Mrs. Vane-Benson standing in
the aisle for every one to see. You know they
have been at some trouble to corral relatives to
match the brides, and Mrs. Vane-Benson s
their trump card. How bored the poor rector
looks waiting in his bower of palms.
He: Queer how people marry, and bury,
3
HE IS WAITING FOR ME,
/ //
/1 SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. 5
and flirt, under palm-trees, nowadays! Im get-
ting awfully tired of being tickled by the spiky
things every time I sit out a dance, or go to call
upon a girl. Hullo! There s Mrs. what does
she call herself since she got her divorce?
She (animated) Is she? No, really? I
would nt have missed seeing Hildegarde de
Lancey for the world. It s the first time she s
been out. Is nt she perfectly lovely in that
gray bengaline and chinchilla, with the bunch
of violets at her breast? I always did say
Hildegarde de Lancey she is now; so nice
to have got rid of her odious, ugly Smithson
is the best-dressed woman in this town. Why,
what a belle she is! I believe all the ushers
would like to escort her in a body up the aisle.
Of course Freddy de Witt saved her a front
place. He knows what people want to see.
He: She s a charmer, certainly. If I xvere
the Mrs. Gerald Vernon that is soon to be, I d
be rather glad Mrs. de Lancey is proposing to
live abroad.
She: Oh, nonsense. You men always think
the worst. Jerry was touched, no doubt, but
Hildegarde meant nothing. You cant conceive
of a greater brute than Smithson, and Hilda was
always such a darling thing. Every one says
she is in luck to get rid of him so soon. How
well she looksno wonder everybody stares.
Oh, Im so glad we re to have Hilda back!
Elsewhere in the church.
A mother in Israel to her young daughters:
So that s the famous divorcuie, Mrs. XVhat s-
her-name Smithson, the papers have been so
full of lately? Dont look at her, Doris and
Gladys; I insist that you dont look that way.
Have you observed the figure of Dorcas in
poor Mrs. Goldings memorial window? The
drawing of the right arm is excellent I wonder
if that person does anything to her hair to give
it that baby gold. I would nt trust her any
farther than I could see. Dear me! the best
people bowing, and smirking, and trying to
catch her eye. Ahem! Mrs. de Lanceys toque
sits quite close to the head, girls; I think it
much more becoming than those great cart-
wheel hats you insisted upon having sent home.
DorisandGladys: Weknow~mama~ we ye
been watching her ever since she came into the
church. What fun it must be to make as much
stir as the bride!
Two girls in tailor gowns, with fur boas and
muffs. They have come in an omnibus to the
nearest corner, and were splashed with mud in
getting out.
Dear me! we are lucky, but I had to push
awfully to squeeze in. If I had nt known Tom
Brounlee, I d have never had this seat. He
asked me if we are going on to the house, and
I coughed and smiled, and he took it to mean
yes. My, Jennie, look at the new suits! I can
tell you the names of most everybody here. I do
know the bride, anyhow, for we re on a working-
girls amusement board, together. I must say
she s as nice a girl as I ever wish to meet.
Cant say as much for her sister, Miss Betty
such a lank, sour-looking thing, and a tongue
sharp as a razor. Nobody can stand her in
our club. I wish the organ would nt play so
loud you cant hear yourself talk. Gracious,
child! lean over, and let me take that lump of
mud off your face. I m thinking I can alter
my blue Henrietta cloth by putting coat-tails
bound with velvet on the basque, like the one
that s just gone by. Have a chocolate, do;
got em fresh to-day, as I passed by Tylers,
on my way to match my blue. Oh! I do love
weddings. I go to every single one I can.
Lady from the Faubourg St. Stuyvesant,
seated well forward in the church.
Poor Margaret Halliday! there she comes
with Betty and Trix and Jack. I wonder if her
grandfather is nt turning in his grave at this
minute, over the marriage of a Ilalliday with
one of these upstart Vernons. Humph! Mar-
garet looks haggard, Betty as yellow as a pump-
kin, Trix rather overblown, and Jack growing
up one of the beefy kind. I m glad it is nt
my daughter who s to be sacrificed, that s
all.
Lady, who has secured end of pew on aisle,
whispering to her husband next to her.
George, that s Mrs. Clarkson that edged
by you just now. If you d known it, you d
surely have been more polite. Who in the
dickens is Mrs. Clarkson, anyway? When we
met them at dinner at the Tompkins, and you
took her in, and were so charmingly agreeable!
I declare, if I d had the least idea you were
going to be glum and cross at a wedding, I d
never have persuaded you to come. Enough
for you to have had to shell out the sixth pair
of piano-candlesticks this year, without bor-
ing yourself with the wedding too! Geo;cge /
You know you were always fond of Nelly Hal-
liday. F/ease try, only tryI dont say you
will succeed to be a li/tie H/like other people.
I have given up hoping for more when you go
out with me. (Mrs. Clarkson just then en-
gaging George in conversation, he becomes
easy and smiling on the spot.)
Two Hibernian ladies, in silk gowns and
imitation cashmere shawls, are ushered into
the seats reserved for the domestics of both
families.
Arrab now, it s a sad day, Misthress Bran-
igan, an you that s cuk in it only this twelve-
month cant tell the faylins o me, that raised
me little Nellie from a four-year old; the light
o the house goes out wid her, the darlint.
Go, Norah, says she, pushin me wid her two
bonds like swans-down, be off wid ye to theSWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE.
church, an sthop yer cryin, to watch yer gyiri
come oop the aisle in all her finery. An is
it happy ye are, Miss Nell? says I. Norah,
says she, wid a little swate smile in the eyes of
her, if it s the last word I have to spake to me
old nurse before I m med Misthress Vernon,
I m that happy Im afraid.
Duet in the vestry. Jerry Vernon and his
best man, Dick Henderson.
The bridegroom: Oh, but I say, old man,
something s happened at the house, or in
the street, or hang it, you need nt grin.
Look at the soles of these boots, will you? If
that infernal fellow of mine has nt been and
put a brand new pair on me, after all; and all
the ushers and bridesmaids will be grinning
when we kneel down. Dont you think the rec-
tor could be induced to bless us s/a;idin~r up ?
I d double the fee, oranything. Dick, if an
accident has happened to that girlthis is a
judgment on me for jeering at those who went
before I never heard such a bally old idiot
as that organist he makes me fairly crazy
with his jigging tunesyou re sure you ye got
the ring? ridiculous little object to cause all
this fuss, is nt it ? Nell wears a six glove, and
look at the height of herI never could have
married a little woman by Jove, Dick, I wish
we two did nt have to amble in there before
everybody and simper at the crowd. Wkat?
Coming? Back me up, Dick, and Ill go at
it like a man. Nell s worth it, every time.
Among the ushers huddled in the vestibule.
The weary Mr. Frederic de Witt, mopping his
beaded brow:
Dumping the bridesmaids outside, are
they? Well, I m glad. Great C~sar! but I m
tired. The cheek of women at weddings, and
the push! No; I decline to see any reporter.
I refuse to divulge where they are going for
the wedding journey, the names of those here
present, or the price Jerry paid for our scarf-
pins. You gave Jerry notice in the vestry, did
you? Hope you did nt forget to remind him
that the unfortunate man, having partaken of
a light breakfast of eggs, bread, and coffee,
WE ARE BEHIND TIME, MRS. VANE-BENSON AND I. SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. 7
usually walks with a firm step to the place of
execution. Hi, there, gentlemen! Fall into line
to precede the bridesmaids, if you please.
Among the bridesmaids.
If we look as well as the couple that walk
before us, I m all right. These directoire hats
and coats are certainly too sweet. Oh! are nt
you scared to death? But it s better than being
Nell.
The bride (divinely tall and most divinely
fair a rose flush in her cheeks, her dark lashes
downward bent, her dark hair knotted low on
her neck, the old lace of her mothers bridal veil
like frost-work upon her trailing robes of white,
no ornament but a string of pearls around her
throat, one of her hands lightly laid on the arm
of the respectable old cousin who has been
haled from his respectable old club to do pa-
rental duty for the day), to herself:
I saw him. He is waiting for me. All these
people are here to see me become Jerrys wife.
But it makes no difference. If we were in a
desert it would be just the same. The thought
of him fills my whole heart. I wonder if it s
selfish and wicked to care for nothing, now, but
the joy and the glory of being Jerrys wife.
Until death us do part. The troth plight
was interchanged; Jerrys hand, colder than
her own, put the ring upon her finger; and the
rector, who had baptized Eleanor, pronounced
them man and wife.
During the ceremony the lower part of the
church, having sated its curiosity, was in full
buzz of chat about the plainness of the brides
gown, the absence of diamonds reputed to have
been given by the groom, and the question
whether guests should go on to the reception
at once, or amuse themselves with other oc-
cupations of the hour.
While the clergyman was in the act of pro-
nouncing the benediction, and the organist was
panting to let himself loose on the wedding-
march from Lohengrin, people were button-
ing their wraps, and gliding out of the church,
to be sure of their carriages before the crush.
Hardly had Eleanor passed under the awning
to her carriageand to the reality of life
before public interest in the bride had in a
great measure exhaled.
But they rallied around her presently in
the house occupied by Mrs. Halliday and her
daughters, looking into a quiet down-town
s(luare. The wide double drawing-rooms of the
old family mansion had put aside their shadows
for the day. Under an arch of greenery and lilies
Eleanor received her friends, Gerald at her side,
looking quite pitiably conscious and ill at ease.
The bridesmaids, headed by Trix, Nells
eighteen-year-old sister, to whom this event was
a species of dThut into society, stood in a semi-
circle, wearing the expression of amateur actors
VOL. XLV.3.
who have just acquitted themselves of a per-
formance in which they happily believe the rest
of the world to have been as much interested
as were they. The crowd, jostling forward to
pay salutation to bride and groom, continued
afterward to jostle on general principles. Ex-
changing inquiries to which no one listened for
the answer, and comments as to the nicety of
having one of the old-school houses open again
for entertainment, they then pushed on to the
dining-room to partake, less enthusiastically,
of an old-school collation marked by the ab-
senceof terrapin and truffles, and by the limited
amount of the champagne. From the walls of
this refectory looked down a row of oil-paintings
in faded frames of gilt; a spirited young man
with a Henry Clay stock and standing collar,
flanking a high-colored lady in a bonnet with
a bird-o-paradise, and a scarf over her bare
shoulders; sundry Continental soldiers, New
England Brahmins, and a stiff-husked dame or
two of remoter date, with attendant cavaliers in
periwigs and ruffles. Over the sideboard hung a
sour-visaged personage of Revolutionary date,
the great-grandfather of the bride, familiarly
spoken of among his descendants as The
Signer. He was a strong tower of American
aristocracy, and Mrs. Halliday always felt that
in his protecting presence at herparties she could
venture to order in another bottle or so of soda
water to dilute her champagne punch. Every-
where in the house thus brought to contempo-
raneous notice there were marks of gentility that
lacked repair. The hangings and furniture,
placed there before the centurys new birth into
righteousness of taste, were massive but shabby.
The carpets, worn into threadbare spots ill con-
cealed hymodem rugs; the walls, faded beyond
hiding with palms and rubber-trees sent in (on
close contract) by the florist, called aloud for
restoration. Although it was the fashion to say,
when glancing casually about these rooms,
How delightful! Ilow solid! What relief after
the varnish and glitter of up-town! no one was
observed to linger there over long, or to return
unless especially bidden to a function of exigent
conventionality. This afternoon, in custody
of a hand of hirelings, who before cockcrow of
another dawn would vanish, bearing with them
every spoon, fork, plate, and glass now in ser-
vice for the guests, the premises did not suggest
even their usual homely comfort.
But to-day, for the first time in many days,
Mrs. Hallidays handsome features wore a look
of complacent satisfaction. Betty, the eldest
daughter, aged six-and-twenty, plain, angular,
and pessimistic, stood by her mother at the
door of the drawing-room, outside of which
was posted Andrews, the lean, old-time butler,
to announce the guests. Jack, the collegian,
tall and pink-cheeked, with a down on theSWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE.
upper lip that his sister Trix thought wonder-
ful, a little too conscious of a new frock-coat
with its buttonhole of gardenias, wandered
about incessantly, resenting the notice of his
mothers old friends who told him how much
he had grown, and repudiating suggested re-
semblance to this or that portrait upon the
walls. In the rear of the two ladies was a
man, no longer in his first youth, of distin-
guished though inconspicuous presence a
man with sleepy gray eyes and a languid man-
ner, before whom Betty was always at her best.
My dear Anthony, his hostess had said
to him, you are at home here; you know
everybody; for Heavens sake, stay and help
me out with Nells in-laws.~
My dear cousin, I am yours as always,
he had responded, with a smile, not however
mirthful.
The list is fortunately short, whispered
Betty in mocking tones. Here, mother,
comes your very largest pill Nells new
mama.
Yes, everything has gone off well. I am
pleased that you admire the lace. No, my
daughter is not tired; we have not allowed
her to do much. Mrs. Halliday was con-
scious of her thin, cold voice, and felt that it
was a poor return for Eleanors new house,
horses, brougham, victoria, not to mention
the necklace and solar system in diamonds,
already at the Safety Deposit Companys, in
waiting till the brides return from her wedding
lourney, the last Geralds gift,paidforby Mrs.
Vernons check. But Mrs.Vernon was quite be-
vond the point of sensitiveness on the trifling
score of measured civilities. Ensconced as a
relative within these shabby walls, she felt that
her price was far above rubies or diamonds
either! If Jerry had to put upon her the in-
dignity of being a prospective grandmother,
he had at least done it in good form.
We are behind time, Mrs. Vane-Benson
and I, she said, as the lady named made her
bow, and retired to mingle with the throng;
but Mrs. Vane-Benson judged it would be
more the thing for us to let the young people
such children! but I, myself, was married at
sixteen get a little settled down before I
fluster them with my congratulations; and
I told her I guessed she was right.
Mrs. Halliday winced at the voice and
speech. She hardly dared trust herself to look
full in the face this modish person in silver-
gray with silver broideries, with the silver bon-
net perched on her dark, glossy locks, with the
brilliant color softened by rice-powder, the
dazzling teeth, the frequent laugh, the effusive
cordiality, the aroma of prosperity. She be-
came conscious of lines in her own face, and
of a break under her chin, that ought to have
been, but were not, in Mrs. Vernons. She
looked down at her old black velvet supplied
with a new frontispiece of jetted lace, and
marked the contrast between its indescribable
wispiness and the crisp perfection of Mrs. Ver-
nons attire. Altogether. she was in some haste
to rid herself of dear Eleanor s mama.
You will be wanting to speak to Nell and
Gerald, she said. Mr. Theobald will give
you his arm across the roomsAnthony
my cousin Mr. Theobald, Mrs. Vernon.
The hazel eyes took on a new luster of de-
light. To be translated into the heart of that
inner circle that till now she had only brushed
with extremest flounce was to cross the room
leaning on the arm of mywhy not our?
cousin Mr. Theobald.
To Theobald, for reasons of his own, the
whole affair was a somewhat grim comedy; and,
abandoning himself to the situation, he duly
brought the widow to a halt before the bridal
pair.
My dearest Jerrymy sweetest Nell, the
lady said, embracing both with such exuberance
that Gerald fidgeted.
We shall see more of each other now,
Eleanor said, very low. Gerald has told me
of all your generosity; he thinks there was
never a mother so kind as his.
Gerald knows I shall be terribly alone,
began the older woman, tears ready to twinkle
in her eyes.
Madre, you must nt, please, the young
fellow whispered, in a tumult of alarm. With
Freddy de Witt, Henderson, and the others
looking on, he felt that an expansion of ma-
ternal tenderness would be his death-blow.
Mrs. Vernon will perhaps allow me to take
her into the dining-room, interposed Mr. Theo-
bald, from the brides elbow, where he had been
standing without speech.
So polite of you, dear Mr. Theobald, ex-
claimed flattered Madame Mare, linking her
arm again in his.
The danger was averted. Nell, who, better
than any other, knew Theobalds fastidious
taste, flashed on him a quick glance of grati-
tude. She reproached herself, when he had
gone, that she had not said something in the
way of personal thanks for his gift of the etch-
ings, so long coveted, which had arrived that
morning framed for her boudoir in the new
home. And now her attention was claimed by
a radiant personage who was for the first time a
guest beneath their roof.
It was more than I hoped, to make your
acquaintance in this way, said Hildegarde
de Lancey. Mr. Vernon and I have always
been such chums.
Eleanor blushed, remembering the little pas-
sage-at-arms with her mother regarding this SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. 9
ladys name upon Jerrys list. She sent a swift
inquiring look the gaze of a young-eyed
cherub fortified with innocenceinto the
pair of blue orbs that met hers with a deprecat-
ing, almost pathetic appeal. Certainly, such
an ingenuous beauty could not be to blame for
her undue share of human griefs.
We are glad to welcome you, the bride
said graciously.
Every one is so good to me, murmured
Hildegarde, with exquisite pathos.
And Gerald says you have been so good
to him, went on Eleanor, while Jerrys atten-
tion was absorbed by some one else.
It is his grateful nature, as you will find.
But I am keeping back your friends, so au re-
voir, and the vision disappeared.
Jerry, she s exquisite, said Eleanor.
Who is ?there are so many shes. Nell,
here s my Aunt Tryphena, who sent usby
Jove, what did she send? Never mind; thank
the old girl profusely, and choke her off good
luck a man dont have to gush over apostle-
spoons and salt-cellars every day of the year.
0 NELL, it must be so nice to be you,
cried Trix, presently, when, in their bedroom,
she hoveredaround hersister,helpingold Norah
to put on the brides frock for traveling. This
sable cape Aunt Penfold sent is simply gor-
geous. Betty says she d have given mink, if
you had married a poor man. And Jerry s
so good-looking, and such a dear hurry,
Nell,everybody sin the hall,andJerry andJack
are fussing, declaring you 11 miss the train
oh! I ye been having a peep out of the
window at your new brougham, lined with
dark myrtle-green satin such as we ye always
dreamed of such horses, such rugs, and such
a big, big footman to tuck you in and touch
his hat no more cabs by the hour for you,
you lucky girl.
Run, now, you silly Trix, and tell Jerry I 11
be there, and ask mama to come; and you,
Norah dear, take that long face away and
dont let me see it till you ye learned to smile.
Mama, are we alone? May I lock the door?
Good-by, darling, darling; and would you mind
sitting down upon this little chair, and letting
me say my prayer at your knee, just to ask God
to make me fit for such perfect happiness?
II.
Mv dear Miss Halliday, wrote Mrs. Ver-
non to the sister of her new daughter-in-law, a
few days after the young couple had left town
on their wedding journey, Will you and your
sister Beatrix give me the great pleasure of
your company at an early dinner, very infor-
mally, at seven oclock on XVednesday next, to
go afterward to the opera? I am asking your
cousins Mr. Thomas Halliday and Mr. Theo-
bald; and, with the exception of one other man,
we shall be quite a family party. I am longing
for an opportunity to talk over with you the
first news from our darling wanderers. Believe
me, yours faithfully, M. VERNON. Thursday.
M. Vernon, Thursday humph! Signs
herself like a duchess; her name s Martha
Luella Ann, observed Betty, throwing the
note upon the table in the up-stairs sitting-
room where the ladies Halliday were wont to
read, sew, write notes, discuss their friends, and
dictate to the day-dressmaker. Family party,
indeed! I knew we d be plunged into a bo-
som friendship. I dont believe Anthony Theo-
bald would be caught at a Vernon dinner.
Oh, yes, he would, cried Trix, coming in
equipped for a walk with her fox-terrier around
the square. I saw him after the play last night,
looking wretched, really; and he asked me if
we are going, and said he will be there.
Then I suppose you approve of our mak-
ing friends with Mammon? said Betty to her
mother. Dont you think it s enough for
Nell to have set up her golden calf? Why cant
we grovel in honest pauperism, and maintain
our self-respect?
My dear Betty! said Mrs. Halliday, com-
pressing her lips resignedly. She had long ago
given up entering the lists of discussion with
her eldest daughter.
I want to go, said Trix, stoutly. I m
dying to see one of Mrs. Vernons dinners, and
to go to the opera under the shadow of her
new tiara. The newspapers say it s a second-
hand crown of real royalty, bought at a Paris
sale.
Well, her man is waiting, so make up your
minds, resumed Betty, sitting down at the
davenport, and dipping her pen in ink. If the
senders of invitations could hear the bickering
they cause in families, I dont think society
would go on with such a rush. So you insist
on our accepting, mother?
Not at all, answered Mrs. Halliday, pluck-
ing up spirit. Trix may, for we must keep in
with Nells new people; but you will, as usual,
do exactly as you please.
It may endwho knows ?in Jerrys
Aunt Tryphena chaperoning us to a Patri-
archs, murmured Betty, dashing oW as she
had intended to do since hearing that Theo-
bald was to be of the party, a smooth accep-
tance of Mrs. Vernons courtesy. I like our
darling wanderers, as if theywere lost dogs!
To end the conversation, Mrs. Halliday took
up a newspaper addressed to her through the
mail, and tore from it the cover. Trix, de-
parting with the note and the terrier, did not
see the white look that came upon her mothers 20 SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE.
face, or hear the stifled exclamation of dismay
uttered by the poor lady as she dropped the
journal in her lap.
What in the world ails you, mother? be-
gan Betty.
Oh! this is infamous, cried her mother.
Take it away. I refuse to read another word
mixing up my daughters name with the scan-
dal about that de Lancey womans divorce.
Betty, if Nell were to see this, it would break
her heart. Oh! if her father had been alive,
they would never have dared of course it is
all a wretched lie about Jerry and Mrs. Smith-
son. Jerry asked for her invitation, and Jerry
is a gentleman, at least. Betty, I ye no patience
xvith you, standing there like a stock.
For Betty, quite mistress of herselg had
picked up, smoothed out, and was reading the
offending article with a scornful little smile. It
was one of those upas-like exotics of modern
society journalism, a two-column account of
the Vernon-Halliday nuptials, with side-issues
of biography of all concerned, set forth with
plentiful cheap wit, audacious statement, and
deadly innuendo. After disposing in short or-
der of the bridegrooms pretensions to social
importance, and affecting to voice the surprise
of good society that the brides family should
have so frankly displayed its inability to resist
golden bait, it went on to give at length the
history of Mr. Gerald Vernons late well-known
infatuation for our most recent and distin-
guished divorcee.,~
Thats a fin-de-si& le phrase, quoth Betty,
coolly, laying down the journal without an
added tinge upon her cheek. My dear little
mummy, dont take the thing so hard. Every-
body will read it, of course, and enjoy it
thoroughly.
Betty, how can you? I shall have to leave
town, certainly. I remember when I danced
with the Prince of Wales at the Academy ball,
and my dress was described next day in the pa-
pers, your dear father was so vexed, he wanted
to go and overhaul the editor. Our family could
never bear to see women in printoh! we
shall not be able to face the light of day. It
is bad enough to drag in this wretched Mrs.
Smithson, but imagine the outrage of saying
Nells f-father-in-law married her in-mother-in-
law from the wash-tub / Did you ever hear of
such an abominable charge?
Noo, answered Betty. I always
thought it was from a beauty-show. The wash-
tub, now, seems to me quite an advance in the
social scale. Mother dear, bear up. By the time
you meet the people you know again, they will
have forgotten all about it. This kind of pil-
lory in print is too common in our society to
hurt anybody long. In next weeks issue of
this charming sheet you may no doubt have
the pleasure of seeing some hit at the people
who this week laugh at you. Here, see me
poke the wretched thing into the hottest part
of the fire; and you take Trix, and go out for
a week to Lakewood.
But Nell,my darling, sensitive Nell,
suppose she reads this cruel paragraph.
I m not in the least afraid of Nell seeing
anything but the light that lies in Jerrys eyes,
forI will give her till the end of the honey-
moon before taking up human interests again.
If Jerry sees it, he will probably whistle and
say a good many bad words. If Mrs. Vernon
sees it, it will do her good. That kind of wo-
man needs a little rap over the knuckles from
time to time, to keep her in her place.
Betty! said Mrs. Halliday. She often felt
that there was a sort of monotony in these
monosyllabic rejoinders to her daughters
trenchant sentences.
MRS. VERNONS dinner was distinctly a suc-
cess. To meet Betty and Trix she had convened
old Mr. Tom Halliday, the cousin without re-
proach, who, it will be remembered, had given
Eleanor away at the altar; Mr. Theobald, and
an extremely nice young Southerner, whose
father had been killed in the war, and whose
family was supposed to go back in an unbroken
line to William the Conqueror, like all other
Virginians, present or to come. To this Mr.
Brockenborough Vyvan, a broad-shouldered,
soft-voiced youth, Trix was assigned, and while
secretly wondering where Mrs. Vernon had
got him, the little minx was taking his mea-
sure and deciding that he pleased her, which,
happily, is all a healthy girl in her first sea-
son generally cares to ascertain. Betty, going
in with Theobald, was eminently suited and
almost amiable. Old Tom, seated. at Mrs.
Vernons right, fell into a doze after the first
entrde, but waked up every time the servant ap-
peared at his elbow with a new dish, and, for the
rest, let the widow talk in a constant stream
which led her to declare to his young cousins
afterward that he was really one of the most
agreeable dinner men in town.
The dining-room, hung with tapestries and
opening into a great conservatory, the perfec-
tion of plate, porcelain, wines, and service were
noteworthy even in extravagant New York.
Betty, recalling, as under such circumstances
guests inevitably will, the story of Mrs. Ver-
nons origin, and her recent struggles for social
recognition, marveled at the ease, even ele-
gance, with which she now presided. She could
not, at a birds -eye view, behold much difference
between this and a similar dinner before the
opera a few nights ago, in the penetralia of good
society. She remembered having heard some
one say that poor Mrs. Vernon had had abso SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. 21
lutely no chance while her husband lived a
crass vulgarian, sure to put his foot into every-
thing; a typical American, like a commercial
advertisement at the back of a magazine. The
time lost in mourning him had been spent by
the widow abroad, and in bringing up his son.
And it was not till Gerald left college, and got in
with the mothers and sisters of his fashionable
friends, that the Vernons actually came up for
notice. Even then he was invited, she ignored.
The great fine house, into which she did not
choose to bid the half-way pe.ople who would
have been glad to go, was like a prison, in
dreariness. Jerrys men came and went to and
from his suite of rooms on the third floor, but
never put in an appearance in his mothers draw-
ing-room. This, at least, was what Betty Halli-
day had heard. She saw that on the wave of
Jerrys marriage into one of the really good
old families Mrs. Vernon had resolved to ride
into the haven of her hopes. And Betty could
not but admit that she was doing this thing
with a good deal of cleverness.
What an exchange from our shabby house
to such splendor! remarked Betty, in a low
tone. I m rather glad Nell is to have a more
modest establishment of her own. One can
never keep up a friendship with riches that
slap you in the face.
She is the one woman I ever saw who
would always, rich or poor, be herself; Theo-
bald said, and then, relapsing into his usual im-
passive manner, turned the talk into another
channel. Speaking of homes, the site of this
is where the old Sydney Wardour house used
to stand; and twenty years ago it was a center
of hospitality in New York, and accounted the
height of fashion. How homely their entertain-
ments would seem beside such as these, and
how cramped their quarters!
What has become of the Sydney War-
dours? said Betty. One rarely hears their
name.
What has become of all of our once prom-
inent families of moderate wealth who are
submerged in the flood-tide of plutocracy?
Either broken to pieces in the attempt to keep
up, or the heads of the families dead, and the
younger ones reduced to insignificance.
The way we live now certainly does nt in-
cline one to indifference to wealth, she said.
The young men I know are most of them on
the qul vive to help along their fortunes by a rich
marriage; and as to the girls, it is no longer a
support they expect from their husbands, but
unlimited opportunity.
Then it is well a woman like Hildegarde
de Lancey comes a cropper now and then, to
point a moral for the rest.
I dont see what you call coming a cropper,
retorted Betty, scornfully. She is more in de
mand than any one I knowin the smart set,
I mean. Old-fashioned people like my mother
hold up their hands, but societyour society,
the society caresses her, and condones what
they are pleased to call her misfortunes. She
is immensely in the swim. She was the bright
star of a dinner the other night at the Bullions,
where six out of the twelve guests are living
apart from their legal partners owing to infeli-
cities too numerous to cite.
By Jove,we are catching up with Chicago,
said Theobald. Did you see the squib in one
of the papers recently,where an English traveler
asks Mrs. Lakeside if she has been presented
yet at court. My gracious! yes, indeed, she
answers; every judge in the city knows me;
I ye been divorced three times.
Tony, tell me something, Betty pursued
more gravely. You must know how people
talk. Is there any reason why Nell should
no; I cant ask you here. But I think we can
count upon you to keep us warned. One
dont want to be made a fool of before the
world; and you know you always were so
fond of Nell.
Theobald drank ~ff at a draught his newly
filled tazza of champagne before he answered,
with a laugh:
I think Mrs. de Lancey will find it to her
advantage to keep quiet for a while. Let us
talk~of something pleasanter: Trix, for instance.
That t6te-~t-t~te with the athletic youngster
yonder does nt promise well for the chances
of Mr. Timothy van Loon.
Oh, Trix is hopelessly unworldly. The
Van Loon connection does nt tempt her in
the least. Timothy, as to whom, since they got
him away from the ballet-girl he wanted to
marry in Paris a year ago, his family have de-
cided that he cant do better than take up with
one of ours, is densely unconscious of the fact
that Trix considers him a booby and a bore.
However, we don~know what a years appren-
ticeship to society may do for our debutante.
She may wake up to her advantages in time.
WHAT a very long name you have! Trix
had progressed so far as to be saying to her
neighbor, Mr. Brockenborough Vyvan, whose
dinner-card her eye had lighted upon.
Yes; our hostess has given me the full ben-
efit of it. It was worse than that once. Regi-
nald Alfred I was christened, after two uncles;
but the fellows at college called me Brock,
and when I came to New York to go into the
offices of Clyde, Lawrence & Clyde, they are
building Mrs. Vernons new house at Lenox,
you know, I cut loose from all the rest. I
was sent by the firm once to wait upon a mil-
lionaire client, a rough old hay-seed, whom I
found studying my card. Look a-here, young 22 SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE.
feller, he remarked, by way of greeting, if
you re goin to make your livin out of us ever-
age American citizens, take my advice and drop
them tenderfoot frills off n your name. Itll
be worth many a dollar in your pocket, if you
do. And I did.
The girls merry laugh rang out.
Which was your university? she asked,
helping herself to something that tottered in
a silver dish.
Yale, of course, he answered, with proud
promptitude.
Why, it cant be you are of course you
are Vyvan, 8, the half-hack that made the
famous run at the Polo grounds, and won our
game against Princeton!
Did you happen to be there?
I should say so! Jack and I were on top
of a coach waving blue silk handkerchiefs; and
I fairly shouted myself hoarse for you. To tell
you the honest truth, when I saw you in that
awfully dirty canvas jacket and trousers, chew-
ing gum, just before you kicked the final goal,
I thought I d rather know you than anybody
in the world.
Vyvan tingled with satisfaction, to the ears.
And who is Jack, if I may ask?
In the Yale catalogue, John Livingston
Halliday, of the Freshman class my brother,
and the best friend I ye got.
Yes, I know. He s the fellow who broughf
a reputation for rowing to college from St. Pe-
ters, and is talked of as likely to get a seat in
the boxy of this years boat.
I should say there is no doubt of that,
said Beatrix, tossing her head complacently.
Jack captained the winning Matlock six last
year. I wish you could see his arm muscle. It
is very nice that he is pleased with Yale. He
really likes it tremendously, I think.
Does he? said the amused alumnus.
Oh, yes. He is pledged to Hay Boolay.
Ah? That was my spot, too.
Was it? I m so glad. And I m hoping
and praying Jack will get into Sk What
Senior Society were you in, Mr. Vyvan? Oh!
What have I said? I beg your pardon, and,
coloring with mortification at her heedless al-
lusion to esoteric mysteries never to be ut-
tered, she remained silent; nor was serenity
restored until Vyvan led the talk into a dis-
cussion of the students ball known as the
Junior Promenade.
She is as fresh as a daisy in the grass, re-
flected Brock. I did nt believe it possible of
a girl in society here. Queer thing she should
have seen me make that run. But what have
I to do with girls? Itll be a long day before I
can cast a second look at any of the little dears,
ended this philosopher of twenty-four.
Such delightful spirits hasI suppose I
may say our little cousin Trix, murmured Mrs.
Vernon, turning to Theobald. I was re-
marking only yesterday to Mrs. Vane-Benson
that all of the Halliday girls are so very differ-
ent, and each so charming, so individual.
People will ask me if Trix is going to marry
Mr. Timothy van Loon. I hardly think that
fair to one of the family, do you?
Mr. Theobald adjusted his monocle in his
right eye, and looked at his hostess narrowly.
He was a deliberate man, and her quick attack
found him without a suitable reply. In his soul
he was saying, She is an amazing woman;
and, upon my word, I believe she 11 win.
As for Cousin Tom, the old gentleman was
already captive to the widows wines and the
excellence of her cookery. He did not know
that her chef, who was a sympathetic soul as
well as a master of the art of fencing, had com-
posed the menu of this little entertainment un-
der the title of a Petit assaut darmes. M.
Alcide, with the rest of Mrs. Vernons numer-
ous retinue, perfectly understood the conditions
of the case.
When they came out from dinner, the men to
pass into a Pompeian smoking-room, their hos-
tess brought her party to a halt in a little ante-
chamber purposely left in shadow theretofore.
There was a general exclamation of surprise.
Facing each other on the wall-spaces, hung
full-length portraits of Gerald and his mother,
the frames sunk in maroon draperies that,lighted
with electricity above, gave the startling effect
of living presences in the group.
Of course you recognize the artist ? said
Mrs. Vernon, modestly. They have but just
come home from his atelier, and I coul& not
deny myself the pleasure of seeing how they
strike my guests.
Strike me? They make me shiver, whis-
pered Betty to Theobald. If that man had
painted Dr. Jekyll, people would have been
sure to see i~ it the monster Hyde. They say
he employs a little somebody with horns to
come up through a trap-door and paint his
eyes for him. The frankness of these is DOsi-
tively brutal.
The portrait of Mrs. Vernon represented that
lady standing in a gown of pinkish mauve satin,
superbly rendered and full of glancing lights,
against a background of azaleas of a purplish
pinka resplendent burst of color, and of an
originality in technic that bespoke a master
hand. But no one, brought face to face with it
for the first time, could fail to perceive the fatal
note of bourgeoisie it betrayed the audacious
revelation of qntamed savagery beneath this
wealth of flaunting beauty.
Geralds portrait, on the other hand, was his
living, breathing self, handsome and high-bred,
with the dash of an hidalgo of old Spain. But SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. 23
Geralds mother was not prepared for the effect
it was to have on Trix.
Oh! no, no! cried the girl, putting her
hands before her eyes. That is not Jerry.
It is somebody who has a cold heart, who
is violent and self-willed, and would sacrifice
any one he loved. I am sorry I looked at it,
to have such a fancy get into my head.
It is the old story, began Theobald, in
the embarrassed silence produced by Trixs
plain speaking. Half the people one knows
are at war with their portraits sent home from
famous studios. In an age that has seen ob-
loquy cast on an example of Meissonier
But Mrs. Vernon was not at once to be
appeased by polite generalities. She was evi-
dently ruffled, and in need of tangible consola-
tion to recover her usual balance.
Fortunately, this was not long in coming to
her. When they reached the opera-house, and
settled with the fashionable swan-like pose into
their chairs, Betty Halliday, who was in a line
with Mrs. VernonTrix, rosy and brilliant, be-
tween the two found herself in the box adjoin-
ing that of the social autocrat, Mrs. Van Shuter,
known to the scoffers in the parquet as one
of the chatterboxesin the parterre. Poor
Mrs. Vernon, whose money had not yet pur-
chased for her the right to disturb her neighbors
with va1)id conversation, had hitherto been
obliged to remain in depressing silence through
long evenings of metaphysics set to music.
In despair she had secured a score, and tried
to pose as a virtuosa in Wagners music; but
the effort proved too fatiguing, and she gave
it up. Thus, she had returned to the privilege
of studying every crease and surge of the fat
Van Shuter back as it appeared overlapping a
tightly laced corsage; the clasps of the van-
ousVan Shuter necklaces; the thin, flaxen Van
Shuter hair, strained up over a pinkish cranium,
and surmounted by plumes and jewels. All
these were familiar spectacles, but she could not
truthfully aver that she had seen the near front of
the lady who sat through the opera-season like
Buddha, vast, placid, twinkling with gems, satis-
fied to exist and to let herself be worshiped.
Duringthe weeks past, Mrs.Vernon had vicani-
ouslv enjoyed reports, vouchsafed by Mrs. Van
Shuter to her visitors, of Mrs. Van Shuters at-
tack of grip, of Mr. Van Shuters attack of
grip, and of the inroads of grip on the consti-
tution of Mrs. Van Shuters confidential maid.
Dawson, said I, had floated in from the
great ladys box, if, when you first begin to
sneeze, you will clap a porous plaster on your
chest, grease your nose xvith mutton tallow, 4nd
take ten grains of quinine, you will certainly
feel better the next day. But Dawson was ob-
stinate, and the result was what you know.
This much, even, had Mrs. Vernon been
allowed to overhear but alas! not as one priv-
ileged to sorrow with the sufferer. It would
have been so sweet to breathe sympathy for
Dawson into the ear of Dawsons mistress!
To-night, things were different. When Mrs.
Vernon, wearing the renowned tiara, faultlessly
gowned in modest pearl-color, appeared before
the eyes of the multitude, leading old New York
in chains, many observers took note of it, and
resolved to leave on the morrow their tardy
cards at Mrs. Vernons door. Mrs. Floyd-Cur-
tis, herself a lady recently promoted, mentally
booked the widow for a dinner three weeks off.
And, better than all, the ample bulk of the Idol
turned slowly upon its satin-cushioned pivot,
and Mrs. Van Shuter actually nodded and
smiled toward Mrs. Vernons box.
You have not dined with me this year, she
said to old Tom Halliday. To Theobald, over
Bettys shoulder, When are you coming to
finish our nice talk about German baths? You
are looking badly, and I wish you would try my
little Doctor Bangs. He has done Mr. Van
Shuter good, and he is doing Dawson good.
Then to Betty, graciously, You have heard
from your sister? Florida, I am told. It was
in Florida I caught the cold that lasted till after
Easter of last yearin our own car, really.
Who is the young man with Trix? Somebody
brought him to my party before the lastyes,
Vyvan, I remember; I shall have him written
in The Book, and you may present Mrs.
Vernon to me, if you like, my dear.
A few off-hand words from Betty, and the
deed was done. Mrs. Van Shuter lifted her
heavy eyelids, ducked her double chin; Mrs.
Vernons color rose, and her tiara tipped for-
ward. Mrs. Vernon had crossed the Riibicon.
Dick Henderson and Freddy de Witt rehearsed
it afterward at the club, and a number of br-
gnons took in the fact. But Mrs. Van Shuters
condescension did not stop at this.
Your mother got the notice of the meeting
at my house on Friday of next week? she
asked of Betty. Tell her I count on her.
There are so many coming who wont signify.
It is to be a talk from that Mrs. Duncombe, the
new woman who has had such success with
the lower classes.
What does she do to the lower classes?
Betty inquired.
Oh! ereverything; it is a scheme for
making working-women understand their legal
rights against their husbands.
I should think her chief trouble would be
from the married couples between whom she
interferes.
Eh? oh! She says with a Fund an immense
deal may be done. I made her understand that
I cant be looked to to give money, with all
I have to do. But I said they may meet first 24 SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE.
in my Empire room, and I let my Miss Thomp-
son write the notices.
I suppose we shall know, when we get there,
what it is all about, said Betty, fearlessly.
Yes, certainly. There are to be flowers
distributed among the poor, in potswith
little pamphlets revised by lawyers. Perhaps
Mrs.ah Vernon would like to come. If
she would like to come, I dont mind telling
Miss Thompson to write a card for her.
She might; I dont know, said Betty.
She s awfully rich, and very generous. But I
very much doubt her going unless you first call
on her.
A surprised look made itself manifest upon
the Idols large pink face. But, then, every-
body in town knows it was pains thrown away
to be affronted by Betty Halliday.
But you know, my dear, I never go in
anywhere. And my first footman, James, en-
gaged with me never to leave the box to ring
a bell, except in an emergency.
Tell James this is a very great emergency.
I think, if you re economically inclined, you 11
find it pay, said Betty Halliday, by whom it
was pains thrown away to feel affronted.
III.
NELL, said Gerald, who was sitting by
his wife on the veranda of a Florida hotel, I
never told you that as we drove away from the
house the day of the wedding to catch the
Southern trainyou know it had begun to
rain I saw Tony Theobald striding around
the corner without an umbrella, and his face
as black as thunder. Queer Dick, is Theobald.
I)ont suppose he d been having a row with
anybody, do you?
Oh, impossible, said Nell.
She had her lap full of spring flowers, had
been awakened by mocking-birds trilling on
the bough of an orange-tree that swept her
window, was breathing softest air, looking un-
der a blue Italian sky across the sparkling
wavelets of a lovely lake. Gerald was at her
side, heaven in her heart. She dismissed the
subject of Theobald as she had all other clouds
that drifted across the azure of her empyrean.
Suppose we go out on the water, Gerald
proposed after a lazy silence.
Delicious. It is what I like best. Shall
you row?
No; let s have one of those black fellows,
one who sings, and loaf along till xve feel like
landing. XVhat are you going in for?
To get parasol and gloves, of course. Any-
thing you want?
Seems to me we might as well have left
that pair of menials at home, for all the wait-
ing on we get, said Gerald. My man, when
he s not smoking my cigarettes, is asleep; and
your Swede sits reading Seaside Libraries when
she is nt at her meals.
Do you know, Gerald, there s something
a little queer about that girl. She told me
last night, when she was brushing out my
hair, that she thinks Florida is stupid; that
is to say, not stupid, but that there is a great
deal of sand here, and the negroes and alli-
gators are very much alike. Fancy finding
Florida stupid!
Well, if the woman has nothing to do, and
nobody to make love to her, perhaps the sit-
uation is different in her eyes. I m afraid
Hughes is a confirmed old bachelor; besides,
he had a breach-of-promise suit in England
once, and wont look at a woman since.
Jerry, that reminds me, before I go
there s time enough, is nt there ?
Bless you, yes. There s as much time as
there is sand, in Florida.
Now that you have spoken about your
valet I dont like to seem suspicious, but,
really, there was rather a strange thing hap-
pened yesterday. You know, when the breeze
fell, and you were kept out fishing with those
men so much longer than you expected, I got
a little nervous and fussy, and I went into
your room and began turning over the things
on your dressing-table. I found there the
necktie I like so much, the dark blue with
the white speckles that you d taken off when
you changed to flannels, and, just to comfort
myself a little, I I
Well you you
I kissed it; and, happening to look in the
glass, I saw behind me Hughes, who had
come into the room in that noiseless way of
his
That s his specialty; commands extra
wages always. And Hughes did what?
Oh, he did nothing; but I caught an ex-
pression in his eye that I thought strange and
sinister. When I turned around, rather sharply
for me, he begged pardon, and did I know
that the sail-boat was in sight? Of course this
was a trifling circumstance, but I could not
mistake that very peculiar look
Nell, I ye a secret to tell you. You are a
little gull. Hughes is the salt of the earth, as
valets go; supports an old mother in Eng-
land, and all that; andnow you re going to
be furious I ye seen that expression on his
face a thousand times, it s when he s try-
ing to hold in a laugh!
Jerry, I did nt think you could be so
mean. If we re to be spied upon, I wish we d
left Hughes and Elsa in New York. Ever
since old Norah had rheumatism I ye waited
on myself~, and I m always thinking how I
should love to lay out your things for you.
2:
2:
z
z
2:
0
rn
2:
0
0
z
VOL. XLV.4 26 SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE.
If you say so, I 11 send em both out in a
leaky boat, anti swamp them in the lake; though
it would be easier to ship them home by train.
Unix-, if we do, we 11 he guyed awfully. As
you are passing the desk, ask if the post is in.
C) jerry, we dont want any letters, anti I
have nt looked at a paper since the clay after
the wedding, when I saw those two nightmares
purporting to he us, between a member of
the rogues gallery and somebody who makes
three-dollar shoes.
Well, they have clone with us now. We are
hack numbers, and not wanted at any price. We
may as well enjoy the woes of our successors.
When I went to school in England a little
American chap turned til) who wrote to his
governor in London: Dear Father: If you
dont take me away, I 11 run away. Every fel-
low in the school has kicked me since I came!
At the end of a week he wrote again : L~ear
Father : I like it better than I did. A new fel-
low came to-clay, anti we ye all kicked him!
It was three weeks after the legitimate end-
ing of the honeymoon, and they had been
knocking around Florida, shunning the h aunts
of men and the beaten tracks of travel. For a
time it had seemed as if they would need an
eternity of isolation in which merely to discuss
their reminiscences of meeting and falling in
love. They took into the woods books and
magazines, and read them upside clown ; iii-
vented childish devices to test anti fathom each
others love; spent hours in profound analyses
of each others character anti glorifications of
each others qualities. Gerald was astonished
and, to his credit be it said, delighted with the
crystal ~mrity anti grand directness of his wifes
nature. He had never imagined a woman like
her, and told himself that he would forever wor-
ship this Brunhilda as she deserved. And every
day Eleanors heart, shy and a little slow to ex-
panci in the new relation ,grew to a broader
understanding of and a greater reverence for the
marriage bond. She thought of her mothers
loss of a noble husband with new tears and
with self-reproach that she had not bestowed
on it enough of tender sympathy. Poor dar-
ling mama To have had anti lost, to have
borne such anguish anti survived it!
Eleanors mind roved continually over the
field of her acdluaintance, trying to understand
the apparent indifference to each other of most
husbands anti wives, the sharp words, the
strained civilities, the perpetual friction upon
minor points. She recalled how she hati heard
women fashion their own matrimonial differ-
ences into witty stories for the amusement of
their listeners. How could it be that this had
seemed to her merely a matter of poor taste;
had repelled her only because of her constitu-
tional reserve and horror of public comment?
Now, it was as if a guardian of the holy of
holies hati seen some rude hand laid upon his
treasure; she felt profaned, outraged, by the
memory of things heard which she for the first
time understood.
Jerry, who, we may be sure, received his
full share of the outpourings c)f her heart upon
thcse themes, was startled at her vehemence.
The daily efflorescence of her beauty in her
great love laid hold on and bewitched him
utterly. Compared with the other women he
had known, she was unique. Over and over
again, when tempted to give some light answer
to what he imvartily styled her impossible
theories, he was silenced by her lofty soul
looking from its windows into his. He had a
vague sense that he was ashamed to lay bare
before such a gaze what his real man con-
tamed of unbelief anti materialism on these
poim~ts. And every now and again there crept
into his mind a feeble wish that his wife would
be a little less intense.
But she (lid not come back to him, after
ever so brief an absence, that his admiration
was not stirred; and when she now returned,
holding a sheaf of letters, and standing beside
him to distribtite them, the light touch of her
garments thrilled him tenderly as he sat look-
ing up into the morning freshness of her face.
One from mama, one from Trix; all these
for you, but only one that looks a bit interesting
a Florida postmark, a swell envelop, and
crest. Why, Jerry, who has found us out?
It s a bore this getting letters, as yotm
say, he answereti, thrusting his batch into his
breast-pocket, without noticing her question.
Shall I take yours too? Of course you ye
no 1)ocket in that stunning tailor-made thing;
but I forgive you, for it fits like a glove.
Come, now, the clay is well along.
Hughes rallied to the effort of spreading a
rug in the bottom of the boat, and saw them
off most affablyNell, in her tailor-macic
thim~ of olti rose cloth picked out with sil-
a
ver, making, under her big hat, a picture her
lazy lord was satisfied to scan to the exclusion of
Floridian scenery. A handsome negro, like the
Farnese 1-Jercules in bronze,who reminded
them also of Tamagno in Otello,his pink
cotton shirt open to show his massive chest,
his eyeballs and ivories Bashing good-fellow-
ship, hancileti the oars. Over a sheet of rippled
lime, broken here and there by the snout of a
traveling gator, anti ringed with tropic foliage
springing from golden sands, they dawdled
icily, until the increasing vigor of the orb of
day caused Jerry to break into irreverent
dluotation
The suns perpendicular heat
Illumines the depths of the sea,
And the fishes heginning to SIVIXET BALLS OUT OI~ TUNE 27
Not another word, said Nell. You rob
the hour of its sentiment. Let us go ashore at
yonder point. I know a wood that is like the
wherein the poet dreamed of fair women;
There is no motion in the dumb dead air,
Nor any song of bird or sound of nh.
[heir way led through the aisle of an orange-
grove, its darkly shining leafage starred with
white blossoms, and (lotted with golden globes.
Here and there a rain of Cherokee rose petals
fell upon their path. An intoxicating fragrance
filled the air to oppression, and clung to their
hair and clothes. It was a relief to pass out into
the dim wood beyond, and to rest on the grass-
less l)ordlerofa still pool, as green as jade stone,
an almost perfect circle, and exquisitely clear.
Here, seated upon the rug, Jerry smoking a
cigarette at her feet, Eleanor read her home
letters, tasting them leisurely, antI putting them
hack into their envelops with a loving touch.
Those dear people How good and sweet
they are. anti vet, somehow, their letters seem
to draw me back into that busy selfish world
we have heen trvi ng to forget. Jerry, it is your
turn now. Open your budget, and while you
are husy, I 11 finish this story I began nearly
six weeks ago.
I call it playing it pretty low down on an
aLithor to take him along for honeymoon litera-
ture, Jerry said, making no motion to obey.
Read, Jerry dear; read your letters. Per-
haps there is something in them to entertain
me with.
Gerald laughed a little constrainedly.
The serpent has entered Eden. Confess,
Nell, that you are dying of curiosity about the
one with a Florida postmark, in a mans hand
that you dont recognize, bearing a crest you
never saw
Coming so soon after that mysterious tele-
gram that Hughes brought you yesterday, that
seemed to worry you, and that you tore into
little bits and dropped into the lakehave nt
I good right to he suspicious ?
Why, did nt I tell you? he said, sitting up-
right and speaking rapidly, while devoting him-
self to picking bits of moss and earth from his
trousers. That telegram was from an old
friend of mine who s down here in his yacht
man I saw last, strangely enough, when we
l)artedl at Tangier, where we fi come in with a
camel-train from Fez. You must do Tangier
with me next year, Nell, after we ye finished
Spain. Wonderful country Morocco is, though
you d no doubt like Spain better
And what is the old friends name, Jerry,
for I suppose he has one, although you neglect
to mention it ?
Best fellow in the worldnot a ladys man
exactly, and I in not quite sure how you and
he will hit it off, he answered airily. But he s
the kind of fellow I should nt like to offend
was married a year or so ago to the surprise of
all his frienils, and they re down here at a bunga-
low he owns. The fact is, his wifewell, I m
not sure you and she would hit it off, Jerry
re1)eated flatly. and conscious of the same.
Oh, you foolish boy, as if I dont see you
are trying to hide something. Why on earth
dont you tell me who it is ?
This is his letter in my pocket. The let-
ter said the telegram would follow, no, I mean
the telegram said the letter would follow, so I
was expecting it, you see. His wife has egged
him on, no doubt; they re (lead set on getting
us to visit them, and, hang me, if I see how I can
get out of it, considering 1 in under tremen-
dous obligations to Shafto in the 1)ast
Shafto? said Eleanor, also sitting upright,
a flush coming into her face. Not the man
who marriedl that (lreadlful Mrs. King?
Well, if it comes to that, answered Gerald,
a little resentful of her tone, she was, when he
marriedl her,in exactly the same position as Mrs.
Clare andl Mrs. Lovell and Mrs. I uddington;
all separated from their husbands and married
again with the sanction of holy church. I dont
claim that Mrs. Shafto is a nice woman exactly,
but the world has no right to accept the others
and taboo her.
That Mrs. King! repeated Eleanor, with
a cold horror in her voice. Why, when the
papers were filled every day with her divorce
suit, my mother burned them, all, rather than
let her children or servants come upon them.
The worst of it was, Mrs. King is a sort of rela-
tive or prot~gde of our old Aunt Penfold, who
refused to l)elieve anything against her; but
my mother got up once and left a room when
Mrs. King came into it. Mama says she is an
outrage on society.
Poor Nell, who had unconsciously coin-
mitted the commonest error in tact of youth-
ful wives, was (luite taken aback by the vexed
note, despite its attempt at pleasantry, of Ger-
aPis ansxvcr:
I should think a woman of the world would
want to receive her ideas of such things from
her husband, rather than hold on to the anti-
quated notions administered to her with school-
room pap.
Oh, but, Jerry dear, she persistedl archly,
is n t it borne in on you by this time that I
never mean to be a woman of the world?~
But Jerry refused to smile. It was not ordy
that he felt strongly the usual objection of his
sex to opposition in any form from hers; but
the annoyance of Shaftos telegram had cul-
minated in the receipt of this letter, about
which he had foreseen that unpleasant corn-
plications were likely to ensue. 28 INSOMNIA.
All the same, Nell, your mother belongs to
another world than yours and mine, now; and
sooner or later you 11 come to recognize the
fact. As long as I m with you, and sanction
it, it can do no harm for you to mix a little
with the friskies; and in a case like this it s a
good work disguised, you know.
He had suppressed his first flash of resent-
ment, and Eleanor longed with all her heart
to win hack his smiles by acquiescence. but
the stern stuff that had come down to her from
a long line of Puritan ancestors would admit
no tampering with conscience.
jerr)- darling, she said pleadingly, you
know I (lont need to repeat it that it
would be a joy to me to l)lease you in this
thing; but, indeed, it would do no good;
every instinct within me rebels against such
society. It dont amuse me; and I m no actor
to cover what I feel. It is nt that I pretend to
At in judgment on them or any one. But, if you
love me, dont spoil our life by bringing me into
relations with that kind of people.
That kind of people said her husband,
angrily. I wonder if it occurs to you that
my habits are made, my friends chosen that
I cant throw over old chums because they re
not up to the Halliday standard.
Why, Jerry !the girl said, in pained ac-
cents. So suddenly had their difference arisen,
she could hardly believe her ears.
Geralds eyes, fixed upon hers in displea-
sure, filled her with dismay. And, withal, she
had the feeling one experiences in watch-
ing a pettish child in the process of working
himself up. The whole matter seemed too
far beneath their love thus to imperil it. De-
nied the privilege of a weaker woman of
melting easily and, at this stage of married
life, effectivelyinto tears, she sat in silence,
while he strolled to some distance from the
spot.
(To be continued.)
INSOMNIA.
Q LUMBER, hasten down this way,
0 And, ere midnight dies,
Silence lay upon my lips,
I)arkness on my eyes.
Send me a fantastic dream;
Fashion me afresh;
Into some celestial thinr
Change this mortal flesh.
Well I know one may not choose;
One is helpless still
In the purple realm of Sleep:
Use me as you will.
Let me be a frozen pine
In dead glacier lands
Let me pant, a leopard stretched
On the Libyan sands.
Silver fin or scarlet wing
Grant me, either one;
Sink me deep in emerald glooms,
Lift me to the sun.
Or of me a gargoyle make,
Face of ape or gnome,
Such as frights the tavern-boor
Reeling drunken home.
Work on me your own caprice,
Give me any shape;
Only, Slumber, from myself
Let myself escape!
Cons/a;ice Gary Harrison.
Thomas Bailey A/dr/c/i.

Thomas Bailey AldrichAldrich, Thomas BaileyInsomnia28-29

28 INSOMNIA.
All the same, Nell, your mother belongs to
another world than yours and mine, now; and
sooner or later you 11 come to recognize the
fact. As long as I m with you, and sanction
it, it can do no harm for you to mix a little
with the friskies; and in a case like this it s a
good work disguised, you know.
He had suppressed his first flash of resent-
ment, and Eleanor longed with all her heart
to win hack his smiles by acquiescence. but
the stern stuff that had come down to her from
a long line of Puritan ancestors would admit
no tampering with conscience.
jerr)- darling, she said pleadingly, you
know I (lont need to repeat it that it
would be a joy to me to l)lease you in this
thing; but, indeed, it would do no good;
every instinct within me rebels against such
society. It dont amuse me; and I m no actor
to cover what I feel. It is nt that I pretend to
At in judgment on them or any one. But, if you
love me, dont spoil our life by bringing me into
relations with that kind of people.
That kind of people said her husband,
angrily. I wonder if it occurs to you that
my habits are made, my friends chosen that
I cant throw over old chums because they re
not up to the Halliday standard.
Why, Jerry !the girl said, in pained ac-
cents. So suddenly had their difference arisen,
she could hardly believe her ears.
Geralds eyes, fixed upon hers in displea-
sure, filled her with dismay. And, withal, she
had the feeling one experiences in watch-
ing a pettish child in the process of working
himself up. The whole matter seemed too
far beneath their love thus to imperil it. De-
nied the privilege of a weaker woman of
melting easily and, at this stage of married
life, effectivelyinto tears, she sat in silence,
while he strolled to some distance from the
spot.
(To be continued.)
INSOMNIA.
Q LUMBER, hasten down this way,
0 And, ere midnight dies,
Silence lay upon my lips,
I)arkness on my eyes.
Send me a fantastic dream;
Fashion me afresh;
Into some celestial thinr
Change this mortal flesh.
Well I know one may not choose;
One is helpless still
In the purple realm of Sleep:
Use me as you will.
Let me be a frozen pine
In dead glacier lands
Let me pant, a leopard stretched
On the Libyan sands.
Silver fin or scarlet wing
Grant me, either one;
Sink me deep in emerald glooms,
Lift me to the sun.
Or of me a gargoyle make,
Face of ape or gnome,
Such as frights the tavern-boor
Reeling drunken home.
Work on me your own caprice,
Give me any shape;
Only, Slumber, from myself
Let myself escape!
Cons/a;ice Gary Harrison.
Thomas Bailey A/dr/c/i.ALICE, BY WILLIAM M. CHASE.

W. Lewis FraserFraser, W. LewisThe Century Series of Pictures by American Artists29

ALICE, BY WILLIAM M. CHASE.

William M. ChaseChase, William M.The Century Series of Pictures by American Artists. Alice29-30

ALICE, BY WILLIAM M. CHASE.AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING.
A TALE OF OLD COLONY DAYS.
WITH PICTURES BY GEORGE WHARTON EI)WARDS.
HAT is juSt the stun
Squire Job Pettijohn sat
down on the wall, and leaned
his chin on his hand, and
scanned a slate gravestone
among a cluster of savin-trees.
It was a solitary stone in the corner of a great
field on a windy hill, where it was intended to
make a family graveyard. The turnpike had
passed the lot, and near the savin-trees was a
pair of bars, as the rustic New England
gateway used to be called. The gravestone
had stood in the corner of the lot for nearly
thirty years. Time had slanted it, and the little
mound that had swelled the earth had sunken
to the common level, and hore a network of
blackberrv-briers with red leaves. The top of
the stone bore the usual grim deaths-head and
cross-hones, and underneath this solemn ad-
monition had been carved the memorial:
Sacred to the Memory
of
DELIGHT PETTIJOHN,
only daughter of Joshua Toogood,
and wife of Job Pettijohn,
Aged 28 years.
Beware, my friends, when this you see.
What I am now, you soon shall be.
You too like me will soon be gone.
I was the wife of Pettijohn,
And what I was you too shall be,
And oh, my friends, remember me.
Peimce to her ashes.
20
THAT IS JUST THE STUN

AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING.
A TALE OF OLD COLONY DAYS.
WITH PICTURES BY GEORGE WHARTON EI)WARDS.
HAT is juSt the stun
Squire Job Pettijohn sat
down on the wall, and leaned
his chin on his hand, and
scanned a slate gravestone
among a cluster of savin-trees.
It was a solitary stone in the corner of a great
field on a windy hill, where it was intended to
make a family graveyard. The turnpike had
passed the lot, and near the savin-trees was a
pair of bars, as the rustic New England
gateway used to be called. The gravestone
had stood in the corner of the lot for nearly
thirty years. Time had slanted it, and the little
mound that had swelled the earth had sunken
to the common level, and hore a network of
blackberrv-briers with red leaves. The top of
the stone bore the usual grim deaths-head and
cross-hones, and underneath this solemn ad-
monition had been carved the memorial:
Sacred to the Memory
of
DELIGHT PETTIJOHN,
only daughter of Joshua Toogood,
and wife of Job Pettijohn,
Aged 28 years.
Beware, my friends, when this you see.
What I am now, you soon shall be.
You too like me will soon be gone.
I was the wife of Pettijohn,
And what I was you too shall be,
And oh, my friends, remember me.
Peimce to her ashes.
20
THAT IS JUST THE STUN AN 0L19 -TA SHIOA7IED THANKSGIVING. 31
iihat is just the stun the Lord forgive
me if I am wrong. That there poetry never
did quite suit me, although the schoolmarm
composed it, she that is the traveling dress-
maker now, anti gets her livin by goin round
vision. Stands to reason that every one that
reads that there poetry cant have been the
wife of job Pettijohn. The parson criticized
that verse when I first set it up, and it has
never given me any satisfaction, though I have
mowed past it, and stopped to whet my scythe
here, for nigh upon thirty years. This aint no
place for a graveyard, anyhow.
Squire Pettijohn sat for a time in silence.
A cloud of wild geese in V-form flew honking
over his head.
Them are dreadful lonesome birds, he
said. They ye gone over my head now well
nigh thirty falls since Delight went away. How
this new house that I am buildin would have
pleased her I always set store by her, and I
think of her still when the avens hlow and the
martins come, and the conquiddles sing, antI
the wild geese go over after the leaves begin
to turn. She wanted to live, but she had to
(lie, and I was sorry for her. She would have
been a good wife to me, Delight would, if she d
only lived. Them wild geese make me think
of old times.
It wbs nearly night. The red sun burned
low in the west, and promised a bright after-
glow. The blue bay rolled afar, and over the
savin-trees that margined the waters gray
shadows were falling.
It was October, and the air was still, With
leaden feet the hired men were returning to
their homes along the country road. An old
clam-digger came up the hill and stopped to
ask:
How do you come on with that house of
yourn ? Have you found them oven-stones
yet ?
Yes, said the Squire; I ye found just
the stun.
Glad to hear it, Sqtiire. That kind of stone
is hard to find. Id ought to know. I ye built
walls now for eenmost fifty year.
The old clam-digger jogged along with a
pail of clams on his back, hung on a crooked
stick.
The Squire slowly got down from the wall,
saving mysteriously:
I remember it all as though it was yester-
(lay. The horses stopped three times, and there
were thirty carriages. I m a well-to-do man,
I am, and I have been elected justice of the
peace four times. I ought not to build a new
house without uettin Delight a pair of new
graxestones. I 11 put these, poetry and all, into
the floor of the new oven, and say nothin about
it. That headstone is just what I ye been look-
in for. I 11 have her removed to the cemetry,
and get some white stones for her, and put a
Scripture text on the headstone. Stands to rea-
son that it is the right thing to do.
The Squire walked slowly tip the road in
the cool, crisp air. the walls were covered
with wild grapes in dark red and purple clus-
ters, or were feathery with clematis. Yellow
corn-fields lay in the valley below, and ox-
carts with loads of corn for husking were go-
ing home to the haystack meadows. The shouts
of the farm-boys to the heavy oxen echoed in
the silent air. The wild-apple boughs were red
with fruit, which wotild soon be crushed in the
cider-mills. There in the distance a white sail
careened in the blue bay. The sun sank red,
andi the clouds ahout the sunset turned into
coppery castles, with l)iniiacles of gold.
The Squire stopped at the bars of an un-
cultivated farm that joined his oxvn, and which
was larger than his. It belonged to William
Bradford, a commercial man, who lived in a
public way in New York. The farm-house was
built of stone and brick, was two and a half
stories high, and had a heavy oak portico and
~reat dormer windows. A son of the owner
n
sometimes visited the place, and when he did
so took his meals at the Sqtiires.
It is a pity that that great farm should all rtin
to waste, the Squire said. Even the pigeons
lool lonesome there. It makes me lonesome; it
does, now. Bradfords wife used to be a mighty
pretty creeter; she s a fine lady now.
The Squire moved on, and came to the Fotir
Corners, where stood a guide-post.
To Boston, he read. There was a painted
black hand on the board. To Boston, he re-
peated. That is the right way. I ye been
elected justice of the peace three times, and
mayhe they 11 send me to the General Court.
Stranger things than that have happened. That
guide-post is a kind of prophet. They all go
right who follow thatto Boston. Maybe
I 11 get there yet.
The Squire passed thoughtfully on, and
came to his farm-house, which for a full cen-
tury had been known as The Old Red House
on the Hill. The house had been built in the
clays of the Pilgrim Fathers. It had great chim-
neys and a slanting root; over which a cool
woodhine, now flaming with crimson leaves,
in the summer-time fell like a waterfall. It had
been built in garrison style, the second story
projecting over the first, and one of the chim-
nevs contained a pane of glass out of which
one could see the valley without being seen, a
provision made during King Philips war. Back
of the house were orchards of ancient trees, and
a huge barn, and stacks of hay and straw.
Across the road rose a new house, two stories
high, perpendicular, and as stately, cold, anti
z
z
H AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. 33
expressionless as the old farmstead was pie- orchard boughs followed by a russet shower.
turesque and full of historic character. The We come up and go like Indian pipes, the
Squire had not the education or fine manners of ghost flowers of the woods. He was again
his ancestors, but he inherited their sturdy char- silent.
acter, and was a thrifty man. He had started Hadley, he continued, I ye got some-
right in life, always spending a little less than thin on my conscience. I ye had a burden
he earned, and so had become what was called there for many years.
in those times beforehanded. Thirty years Lordy, Massa, I ye seen that you warnt
savings had enabled him to enlarge his farm, always at ease.
and build a new house after the manner of the Yes, Hadley; that poetry aint correct.
times, one that was so perfectly perpendicular Poetry is it, Massa? In the hymn-book,
and correct that every angle of beauty was Massa?
wanting. He stopped at the pasture-bars of No; on the gravestun. Hadley, I m go-
the farm-house meadow, and surveyed the tall in to get Delight some new ones
structure and its two perfectly proper chimneys Gravestuns, Massa?
with pride. Yes, Hadley.
Hadley, for twenty years his hired man, a Now, that am right, Massa. I always knew
negro from one of the Windward Islands, who that you re a good man in your maginations
had come to Plymouth on a merchant ship, And, Hadley, what am I goin to do with
came out to meet him, lifting his eyebrows as the old ones?
he approached, as though some unexpected Dont know, Massa; for the Lor sake,
event had happened. what?
Massa Job, he said, coming up to the bars, Them stuns, if they were nt gravestuns,
these be the las times. To-day we arewe would be just the thing for the floor of the new
- are here, smart as peppergrass, and to-morrow oven.
where is we? Do you know who is dead? For the Lor sake, Massa! Baked poetry
No, Hadley; who? and all !
You know the Plymouth stage has passed? I want the best stuns that can be had for
Yes; but who is gone? that oven, Hadley. An oven is a very impor-
John Bradford. He died in New York; tant part of the house. If we did nt eat we
the Brewsters have had a letter. wou~ld nt live. When a man quits eatin it is
John Bradford! Can it be? Then Mary all over with him in this world.
Bradford is a widder! Sure, Massa.
Lor, Massa Job! Think of the great oven in the old house,
Dont say anythin about it. and the Saturdays bakins in it for now nigh
What, Massa Job? on to a hundred and fifty years. Think of the
The widder. cordwood it has swallowed up, and the walnut
Lordy, Massa Job, your mm is not turnin leaves; and the brown bread it has baked, and
in that way so soon! He aint buried yet. Theyre the apple-puddins, and the rye-and-Injun,
goin to bring him to Plymouth to rest among and the pans of apples, a~ the pumpkin-pies,
his folks. and the gingerbread, an dT the beans, and all.
And the widder will come, too. I wonder Think of the funerals, when you could hear the
if the funeral procession will pass this way. clock tick,. and th~ wills that have been read
Squire Job looked up with renewed pride when they came back from the grave, and the
to his perpendicular mansion, and over the feasts with which the old oven comforted the
cidery orchards to his bursting barns. Mary mourners.
Bradford had been a favorite companion of his For sure, Massa.
boyhood. They used to go whortleberrying to- And the Thanksgivins, Hadley! Oh,
gether, and had gathered red cranberries in what Thanksgivin dinners have come out of
the pasture-lands, and checkerberries in the that old oven! Makes me thankful just to think
woods. She had fair cheeks and bright eyes of it. Roast pigs, and turkeys, and ducks, and
then; he had dreamed of her often in his long chickens, and wild fowl, and shell-fish, and flat-
widowerhood. fish, and ministers.
He stood in silence. The negro respected For the Lor sake, Massa, you dont mean
his feelings, and from time to time lifted his ter say that you roasted them F
eyebrows. The Squire felt at last that he must No, no, Hadley; they came to say grace.
say something. Old Parson Bonney he once fell asleep while
Yes, Hadley, these are solemn times. The saying grace, and we had to wait until he woke
earth drops its inhabitants as as the tree drops up, and by that time the dinner all got cold.
its leaves, which last happy figure was sug- For the Lor sake! That was in the good
gested by a ripple of sea wind among the old times.
VoL XLV. 5-6.34 AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING.
Yes; he had the palsy. But that aint here
nor there. Those were fine old days, in the
town-meetin times, and we dont have any such
of late years. The world is growin worldly,
and it is nt now what it used to be.
Spects t is the las times, MassaV
Hadley, I ye got a great thought in my
heada scheme.
For the Lor sake, Massa!
Yes, Hadley; we must finish that oven at
once. I want you to find two large, flat stones
almost as big as them gravestuns for the floor.
You can get em. Next year I 11 have a reglar
old-fashioned Thanksgivin. I 11 just have
baked in that oven all the old things of the
Pilgrim days, and we 11 have the minister come,
and it may be the Leftenant-Governor Wins-
low and other property people will be here
likely enough somebody elseI cant say
now.
Who, Massa?
I cant exactly say now, somebody, but
never mind; we 11 have a reglar old-fashioned
Thanksgivin, wild geese and all.
Hadley lifted his eyebrows again and again.
Surely you dont mean that Bradford wo-
man the widder?
Sho, Hadley! t is too soon to think of
such things now. But old Governor Bradford,
I ye just been thinkin on t; my grand-.
mother used to tell me about it,well, old
Governor Bradford, accordin to her account,
old Governor Bradford, of the Mayflower
well, his wife was drowned at the landing of
the Pilgrims, and he had been kind o partial
in his early years to a pretty girl at Austerfield,
or Scrooby, or some country place in England,
and she married, and her husband died. Well,
I wont tell you any more now; it is a pretty
story, but that aint wither here nor there. You
go and look the farm all over, and see if you
cant find two flat oven-stuns that will hold
heat, large ones, almost as big as those grave-
stuns. I first thought I would use themthe
Lord forgive me! It would nt a been decent,
would it, now?
What became of the girl that the Governor
loved, Massa?
She became a widder.
Did she come over in the Mayflower,
Massa?
No; she came over after the Mayflower.
Some folks do. It was a mighty pretty story;
shows what a woman will do for a man when
her heart is all set right. She became Brad-
fords second wife; some folks do have second
wives. The Atlantic ocean, and Indians, and
cold aint anythin to some folks. The Brad-
fords all sleep over yonder where the moon is
risin.
Job Pettijohn made his way through the wall-
side bushes of red alder-berries, when he was
arrested by Hadley.
Massa, what you goin to do with the old
gravestuns?
Well, Hadley, I would put em into the
oven if they were nt gravestuns. I always
used Delight well when she was livin, and I m
goin to keep right on now. Hadley, do you
put them gravestuns out of sight somewhere
into the barn sullar wall, or somewhere, you
need nt tell me where. I never want to see em
again. I ye always had a prejudice ag in~ em,
since Mary Bow, the old-maid dressmaker,
stood here by my side and read:
I was the wife of Pettijohn,
And what I was you soon shall be.
She looked up to me kind o knowin, and put
her hand on my shoulders, and sort o pressed
down, and I ye never wanted to visit the place
with no women folks after that. That aint no
kind o right poetry; t aint respectable to me.
Stands to reason that all the old maids and
widders and other folks wives cant be the sec-
ond consort of Job Pettijohn.
And what I was you soon shall be.
Folks just laughed at that stun, and now I
want you to hide it where I and no one else
will never see it again. Break it all up. Just
look at the moonas big as the sun. T is,
sometimes, in these fall evenin s.
Far over the sea, where the white sail of the
Mayflower had drifted the Cross of St. George,
the hunters moon, like a night sun, was fill-
ing the sky with a flood of veiled splendor.
Silence had fallen on all the farm-yards; candles
gleamed here and there through the dusky
trees; and the chill of a frosty night crept over
the walnut-trees and rowaned meadows. Afar
gleamed the sea-marshes, and in the stillness
the memories of heroic lives and days seemed
to haunt the a~r, as always in the old Cape towns.
The two men went up the hill in the shadows.
Hadley felt the spell of the moon, and made a
classical allusion to one of the legends of the
place.
The ghost, Massa!
Oh, that was nothin but an old white
horse.~~
But his paws were in the moon, Massa.
He was eatin apples from the top of the
tree. Horses like wild apples, and will lift
themselves up to get at them.
The two men went home. The next day Had-
ley searched the farm for two large, flat stones,
but could not find any of sufficient size and hard-
ness. He also took up the two gravestones,
and set them against the mossy wall, and sat
down and looked at them.
If I were to break em up they d do first- AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. 35
rate; and nobody would ever know it until
the resurrection. I 11 do it.
That night Hadley might have been seen
among the savin-trees and red alders with a
stone-hammer. The next morning poor De-
lights unfortunate gravestones, poetry and all,
had disappeared, and Hadley informed his
master that he had found the right oven-stones,
and put them in.
From the day that the great stone oven was
completed, Squire Pettijohn seemed to be lost
in the vision of the proposedThanksgiving din-
ner to his friends. It became the one event
in his mental horizon. Poor John Bradfords
body came back to the burying-ground of his
fathers. The carriage of the undertaker passed
the Squires new house, and the widow in her
solitary coach. There were twenty carriages in
the procession on the day of the funeral, and
the horses stopped twice, or acted contrary,
on their way to the windy hill where the earth
had been opened. For horses to act contrary in
a long funeral procession was the notable event
of that slow, final ride to lifes eternal pillow.
Squire Pettijohns sister, Hannah, a maiden
lady who had been a school dame, kept his
house. She was a tall, stately woman, and
wore a high cap with flying ribbons at the ears,
a crossed handkerchief about her breast, car-
ried her keys at her side, and maintained a gold
snuff-box with a very curious picture on the
cover. She fondly hoped that her brother
would never marry again, but yet looked upon
all events of life philosophically, and took her
poetry of life from the ancient Book of Job.
Thatis the best which happens to every man,
she used to say in the spirit of the man of Uz.
Since we do not know anything, and never
can know anything, we must believe that every-
thing that happens is for the best good of every
creature that lives. This Oriental philosophy
gave her a serene manner, and left a peace
in her long, charitable face that was something
really beautiful to meet.
Hannah, said the Squire, one September
evening nearly a year after the new house and its
handy oven were completed Hannah, stop
your knittin, and listen to me. You have kept
up your education, and I never did. I want
you to help me about them there invitations.
What invitations, BrotherJob? said Han-
nah, dropping her needles.
To the Thanksgivin dinner. I have a
curious plan in my head. I ye been thinkin
of it all summer. I m goin to have a reglar
old-fashioned Thanksgivin. I m goin to send
the invitations by letter, and put into each let-
ter five grains of corn.
For the Lor sake! said Hadley.
Brother Job, be you crazy? What are you
goin to send the corn for?
Hannah, what did the ancient people of the
Lord used to build green tabernacles for, and
live in em a week every year? T was for the
remembrance. Now, Hannah, when the famine
came to the colony in Governor Bradfords day,
Myles Standish dealt out to the people five
grains of corn for a meal. Well, what hap-
pened? The old Pilgrims had faith in the five
grains of corn, and the next year good times
came, and they met in the old log church on
Pilgrim Hill and had a Thanksgivin. For
remembrance, Hannah.
For the Lor sake! said Hadley. I
thought it was for seed, or the chickens.
Who are you going to send invitations to?
asked Hannah.
Leftenant-Govemor Winslow
Thats a good idea, Brother Job. He hon-
ored the General Court, and is a good man;
besides, he s all alone in the world.
And the selectmen, hem as I m a justice
of the peace.~~
Yes; you ought to invite them.
And the parson.
Yes.
And seem that the Widder Bradford must
be rather lonely, and must long again for old
scenes and the bygones, I just thought I d in-
vite her.
Hadley rolled up his eyes, and if ever Han-
nah Pettijohn began to knit as though a tire-
woman were waiting, it was then.
There was a long silence, broken only by
the solemn tick of the old clock and the sound
of the needles.
Suddenly Hannah dropped her knitting-
work, pushed her spectacles up on her fore-
head, and said calmly:
Those are good ideas, Job. I ye been com-
munin with myself, and Ill do it.
You 11 write em, Hannah?
Yes; to all of 1J~iem. It dont matter what
becomes of me. Thai which is best for us all
is sure to come. I can trust Providence in all
the changes of the winds and waves. But I m
human, and I 11 have to battle with myself.
Never mind; good comes that way. Her
lip quivered, and she dropped her spectacles
to hide her tears.
I 11 always take care of you, Hannah, and
she s well off.
Who is well oW Brother Job?
Oh, our old school friend.
Hannahs needles flew again. She stopped
knitting at times to punch the fire, and to stroke
the kitten that lay purring in her lap. Then her
needles would fly again. At last she arose
slowly.
Job, I m goin up-stairs to baste those quilts
on the frames.
Hannah, wait. Let s have it out and over.36 AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING.
I want to have good cookin for that day the
best ever seen in the colony.~~
Dont I cook well, and bake, and serve,
Job? Dont I do it all well?
Yes, Hannah. XVe will want succotash,
because that belonged to the Thanksgivins
of old Indian times. And pandowdy, because
that was the great dish of the next generation,
after the apple-trees began to bear. And apple-
dumplings with potato crusts. And rabbit-pie,
and wild fowl, and cider apple-sass, and all
things that the Pilgrim families used to serve
on Thanksgivins in all their years of hard-
ships.
I 11 do my best, Brother Job, to have every-
thing just as you say. I 11 lay myself out on it,
Job. You ye been a good brother to me,in
the main, and my heart has always been true,
and to say that one is true-hearted is the best
Lhing that can be said of anybody in this un-
~~ertain world; aint it, now, Job?
A queer episode followed, which could not
happen to-day, but was a serious thing then.
The cat suddenly leaped up as from a dream,
turned round and round, and ran under the
great oak table.
She seen a ghost, said Hadley. Animals
always sees em before folks. Missus, dont go
up-stairs! Dont, Missus! The sexton brought
the new gravestones to-day, and left em~
among the savin-trees on the hill, and to-mor-
row he s goin to move the body and all. You
dont know what that cat sees. These am
the las times.
Why did nt you tell me, Job?
There was a silence. Hannah began to rock
to and fro, and to hum, and then to sing. In
those days of New England religious revivals,
which changed and lifted character, and kept
communities strong and pure, there was one
very searching hymn that Hannah used to sing
in the conference meetings held round at the
houses; and this she repeated now:
The pure testimoni poured forth from the sperrit,
Cuts like a two-edg~d sword,
And hypocrits now are most sorle tormented
Because they re condemned by the word.
The pure testimoni discovers the dross,
And
Hum, hum, hum, and a violent rocking.
You did nt answer me, Job?
There was another silence, broken only by
the tick of the clock.
Job?
Well, Hannah?
There s one thing that I would like to
know, and I ye heard others speak of it, too.
Whatever became of those slate gravestones
on Windy Hill, among the savin-trees?
I used em in buildin, Hannah. That
was no proper poetry for a gravestone. I ye
done the respectable thing by Delight. I ye
waited now goin on thirty years, and to-mor-
row I shall show again my respect for her.
She was a good woman.
Buildin what, Brother Job?
Oh, I got em used for foundation-stones
on somethin I was buildin. That want no
good poetry, Hannah. Dont ever speak of it
again.
The cat again whisked across the room, and
Hadley rolled up his eyes, and went and stood
by his benefactors chair, and said:
For the Lor sake, Massa Job! These be
the las times. My conscience is all on fire now.
That there cat knows it all.
Hannah would sit evening after evening on
the old red settle, and look into the fire. She
grew absent-minded, and used to stand in the
frame of the door, and gaze at the tops of the
trees.
If he marries her, they 11 never want me,
she would sometimes say, talking to herself.
But somebody else will. Right-doin makes
a home for every one in the world. I never
cooked as I mean to cook for that Thanks-
givin Day. My pandowdy will make them
all grateful for the days of the five grains of
corn.
In the midst of the fall cooking an extraor-
dinary thing occurred. For great husking-
parties Hannah had been accustomed to bake
very large loaves of wheat bread in the old
house, and she followed up the old method
in the new. She placed one of these enor-
mous loaves on walnut leaves on the floor of
the oven, without a pan, after the old custom.
When she went to cut the bread for the great
husking-supper she thought that she saw the
word ashes in raised letters on the bottom
of it.
It must l~e a happenin, she said, so I 11
say nothin about it. But it is very mysterious;
the letters all face backward. Some folks would
think it was a sign.
Early in October Mrs. Bradford was one day
seated in her rooms in Fraunces Tavern, New
York, where Washington had bade the officers
of his army farewell, and announced his inten-
tion of retiring to private life. There was with
her a very bright and unique companion, little
Annie Brewster of New Windsor, New York,
a dwarf and a daughter of a descendant of
Elder Brewster, the first minister of the Pil-
grim republic. Washington had been a friend
to her, and for the very popular reason that
she had once refused an invitation from Lady
Washington to be present at a social party.
I have been invited merely out of curios-
ity, said the little child of the Pilgrims, and
never will I take the blood of the Brewsters AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. 37
to any place where it is not invited for its own
worth.
The little girl may have misunderstood Lady
Washingtons motive. Be that as it may, both
Washington and his lady so much respected
her for her refusal as to become her friends, and,
according to an old family tradition, probably
offered her a home with them.
?~Irs. Bradford had lived at the old historic
hostelry since her husband died, as this had been
his New York home. She had an unmarried
son, and three daughters who were married,
and each of her sons-in-law had offered her a
home with him. But her days of ambition were
over, she had lost a part of her property at sea,
and she longed for a quiet life on her Old Col-
ony farm. She dreamed continually of the sim-
ple scenes of her girlhood, and felt that her sons
health would be better on the windy hills over-
looking Plymouth Harbor and Provincetown
Bay.
The postman knocked at the door, and
sprightly Annie Brewster answered the call.
She was given a letter, very odd and bulky,
bearing the address of Mrs. Bradford.
It is from the Cape, said the widow. I
hope that nothing ill has befallen any of my
old friends there. Annie, read it.
The beautiful dwarf opened the letter, and
there dropped from it a grain of corn. Then
fell another, then others, five in all.
Five grains of corn, said the widow.
That has an Old Cape sound. What does
the letter mean?
This, said little Annie:
DEAR MRS. BRADFORD: Let us remember
the days of old. Our fathers dwelt in booths in
the wilderness, and in grateful remembrance let
us keep the feast of green tents and adorn our
houses with boughs. I have sealed up in this
letter five grains of corn, such as your great-
great-grandfather, in the days of distress and
humiliation, dealt out as a fast-day meal.
I am going to give a dinner on Thanksgiving
Day to my old friends, and keep a Feast of
Tabernacles like the patriarchs of old. We were
friends in other years. Let me invite you to be
present on Thanksgiving Day, and renew the
friendships of the past, and honor the enduring
precisioners by our own grateful remembrance.
You are a daughter of the Pilgrims of Scrooby
and Austerfield, and you married a son of the
Pilgrims, whose name is an ancestral crown.
You will make me very happy by accepting the
invitation, and thus honoring the men and days
of old. Sincerely yours,
JOB PETTIJOHN.
P. S. Hannah joins with m~ in the invitation.
It is she that herewith expresses my thoughts to
you.
The postscript was written in the same hand
as the letter. Mrs. Bradford handed it to her
son William.
He made her write that, said the boy, with
a smile. Hannah Pettijohn is a saint. Let us
go, mother. And, Annie, you shall go with us.
It is a delightful thing to visit the old Brewster
farm in husking-time.
Mrs. Bradfords mind ran over the past
the old thrifty home-scenes of her girlhood;
the avens, the lilac-bushes, the blooming or-
chards, the peach boughs that grew pink, and
the peartrees that grew white and odorous, at
the coming of the long days of spring; the
orioles in the great hour-glass elms; the clo-
ver-fields; and the bobolinks, or Indian con-
quiddles, that toppled in the waving grass; the
haying-times; the merry huskings; the apple-
pickings; the nuttings; the cranberry meadows;
and the old dinner-horn that was blown from
the bowery back door at the noontime hour.
She could even hear the ospreys scream in the
long July days in the clear blue sky. The great
airy rooms and their industrious associations all
rose before her. She thought of the looms in
the garret; of the dipping-of-candles day; of the
dismal killing time; of the powder candles
that were burned on Christmas night; of the
old bread-cart man, with his jingling bells; of
the peddlers in their red carts; of the summer
showers on the dry roof; of the horse-block;
and even of the rag-bag and the button-bag in
the saddle-room. She pictured the general
training-day, and commencement-day in Cam-
bridge town, but more than all the old Pilgrims
Thanksgiving, when the people came home,
and hands clasped hands over the bridge of a
year, and heart pressed heart with affections that
moistened the eyes. The stage-driver, with his
long whip, the coach-dog, and spanking steeds
rushed across her vision; the old folks with
white hair and serene faces, at the end of the
long table; the churchyard toward which the
procession .of loviig hearts all traveled, and in
which they all found rest at last; the bell, ring-
ing, tolling on Sundays, and finally tolling on
uncertain days as the earth opened and closed,
and the sexton did his office. She laughed,
burst into tears, and said:
Yes, I will go. We will all go. Annie, you
should go home and see the old Brewster farm
once more, and read Elder Brewsters Bible,
and sit in his chair, and look into his looking-
glass, into which all the Pilgrims have looked.?
The Brewster farm, with its great rooms, and
long orchards overlooking the sea, was near
the estate of the Bradfords and Pettijohns. The
old parlor contained, and still exhibits, Elder
Brewsters mirror, before which it is probable
that all the Pilgrims passed, and saw their faces
and forms, forever lost now, even to memory.
Thanksgiving Day came, a mellow splendor38 AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING.
of Indian-summer weather, falling leaves, and
purple gentians. The stage from Boston came
rumbling d6wn the old country road, the farm
geese fleeing before it into the lanes, and par-
tridges whirring into the woods. It was a day
of trial to serene Hannah Pettijohn. She had
toiled for weeks in preparation for this day.
There was hardly a notable dish in the country
round that she had not prepared. She had
scoured the house in all of its rooms, put down
her new rag carpet in the parlor, her new husk
mats on the kitchen floors, and had herrin-
boned the chambers.
In the midst of these preparations another
curious and remarkable event had occurred.
Hannah had found on the bottom of a great
loaf of gingerbread, baked on walnut leaves in
the new oven, some strange angles like raised
letters.
That looks just as though it read Remem-
ber me backward, said she. Mebby t is a
sign. There s something queer about that oven.
The gingerbread seems all right, and it must be
my head is out of order. She looked troubled,
but did not mention the incident, and only said:
I hope the bakin on Thanksgivin Day will
come out straight. I d hate to have anything
to happen then, especiallybefore Madam Brad-
ford. She used to be a very particular person.
Thatthere loaf of gingerbread did look just like
a gravestone. I would nt like to have one of
my great Thanksgivin loaves of wheat bread
come out that way. I m goin to make my
loaves of wheat bread for that particular day
long and broad, and bake them on walnut
leaves, and I want em to come out smooth.
I m goin to do my duty, if it does hurt me,
and it does.
Mrs. Bradford, or Madam Bradford, as she
was called, with her son and little Annie
Brewster, had arrived at the old Brewster farm
a few days before the Pilgrims feast. So when
the stage arrived on Thanksgiving Day, the
only guest that came directly to the Pettijohn
house was Lieutenant-Governor Winslow,
from the Winslow estate near the great Marsh-
field meadows.
Governor Winslow, as he was called, be-
longed to the great family of colonial gover-
nors and town magistrates, had once presided
over the Senate in the General Court as sub-
stitute officer, and so carried the family honor
of Governor, or Left-tenant-Governor, as the
title was then pronounced. He was a portly
man of sixty, a widower, rich, and handsome.
He looked finely on that day. The dogs barked
when he arrived, and the farm-hands stood
with uncovered heads under the burning elms
to meet him. He had been a lifelong friend of
the Pettijohns, the Bradfords, and the Brews-
ters, and had seemed to take a particular in-
terest in Hannah Pettijohn in his young days,
before his marriage, when she used to keep
school and sing coun/re in the choir. The
Brewsters and the Brarifords came over to the
Pettijohn farm early on the eventful day, and
Madam Bradford received a most gracious
reception from Job, and a polite one from
Hannah.
Madam Bradford wandered about the place,
and gazed out on the hills where the old pre-
cisioners used to live, and where were their
graves. She lived in her girlhood again. Job
watched her impatiently.
Job was a man of decision. He had a very
practical mind. He never let the grass grow
under the horses feet when he was going to
mill; he galloped with the grist while the
stream was flowing. To-day the past had lit-
tle poetry for him. He had invited Madam
Bradford here to learn her mind, and he
proceeded to do this at once, so that no cloud
should hang over his Thanksgiving dinner.
Mis Bradford, said he, come, let those
old things go. I want to show you my new
house. Let s go up-stairs. I want you to look
out of the chamber winders.~~
Madam followed Job with a complex ex-
pression on her face.
There, Mis Bradford, I want you to look
out on to your own farm, and see it as I see it
every mornin. It is all goin to wreck and
ruin, and it is a shame. Nobody to put up the
walls, nobody to keep the meaders in order,
nobody to pick the apples, nor nothin. Now,
just look at my farm. Dont it look like livin,
now? And you way off there in York State.
It s strange that people will live so far away,
and ketch such queer notions. Mis Bradford,
I ye had an idea in my head goin on
months. Your farm jines mi;ze, and you ought
to jine me. There, that idea has flew out of
my head like a martin-bird. I know it s sud-
den. Say, Widder, now, what do you say?
Esquire Pettijohn, you amaze me. I I
I cant answer now. I must wait and con-
sider. She looked out of the window and far
away. My old farm does look neglected
it does; but I must consider.
Consider how long? I dont want you
to spile my dinner by keepin me tossed about
like a toad under a harrer. Oh, come back
here to the old town, Sarah, and pass your re-
mainin days among the genuine, original fam-
ilies. I ye got enough; we re all property
people on the Cape, and your folks are all
buried here.
But this, you know, is a very serious mat-
ter, and I must have time to consider.
I 11 give you until after dinner, bein t is
you. And if nothin happens, I just know you 11
have me, and we 11 both sing out of the same AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. 39
book at the sing after dinner, and render thanks
for mercies new, as well as for the way-leadings
of the Pilgrims of old. We 11 be led, too.
But how about Hannah? What a sister
she has been to you! She might feel that I had
supplanted her in her new home.
It would be hard for Hannah at first. But
she has got a spirit that keeps a stiff upper lip,
and marches on straight after duty; and after
a little she 11 be glad of the change. She ought
to have married herself.
And she would have had offers but for you,
Squire.
The two stood in silence, looking out on the
crimson woods. While this extraordinary scene
was taking place in the chamber, another
equally novel was occurring in the bright par-
br below.
Lef tenant-Governor Winslow, said Han-
nah, on the arrival of that distinguished guest,
you have been a very particular friend of the
family ever since I can remember, and I am
glad that you came early, for I want to have an
honest talk with you about a matter that con-
cerns my peace of mind. Leftenant-Governor
Winslow, I am in trouble. I feel just as I had nt
ought to, and I dont know of any one who has
better sense to advise me than you. Leftenant-
Governor Winslow, let us go into the parlor,
all by ourselves, and I 11 lift the curtains and
let the light come in.
After this explicit statement of her unhappy
state of mind, Hannahled the Lieutenant-Gov-
ernor into the parlor, and raised the curtains to
the sun. The light seldom entered an old New
England parlor, except on wedding and funeral
occasions, and when property people were
guests. The parlor, as a rule, was the still, dark
room of all in the house.
The stately couple sat down in the parlor,
which in this case was new.
Leftenant-Governor Winslow, did you see
them go up-stairs?
Yes, Hannah. Why does that disturb you?
She went up to see the new house.~~
0 Governor, I feel as though the fox and
the goose was havin a conference meeting,
now I do. Just to think what I have done for
that man! I nussed him when he was weakly,
and made herb-tea for him for years and years,
and gathered pennyroyal, and motherwort, and
wintergreen, and all that.
But I dont understand
Then, Governor, listen. Think of the work
that I have done, the hens that I have set, the
peppers that I have raised, and ground, too,
with my head all tied up in a bag as big as abol-
ster-case, and the apples that I have dried, and
how I pinched and pinched years and years,
so that he might save money to build his new
house, and now there s goin to be a change,
Governor. Oh, I cant help cryin. And poor
Hannah threw her white apron over her face.
There s goin to be a change. I ye seen it
comm for a long time, and I ye done my duty
just the same.~~
What, Hannah?
I hate to tell you, Governor, but I suppose
I must. I ye done my duty, and tried to bear
up. Just look out and see those milk-pans in
the sunhow they shine! Well, Governor,
it is nt for the Pilgrim Fathers that Job has
made this great Thanksgivin Party, and that
I ye been slavin for. They re dead. It is for
Sarah Bradford. There the Lord forgive me!
I m goin to tell you all my heart, but I m
goin to act real good about it before the world,
and show a Christian spirit.
But you dont think that Madam Bradford
would marryanybody?
Yes, Governor; why should nt she? She
lost most of her property except this in the old
Cape Town, and birds dont roost in the air.
Job s good-lookin, and beforehanded, and
honest, and a good provider. You cant say
anything agin him, only that he talks Yankee
talk, and never minded his grammar. And she s
a widder; a single woman wont take advantage
of me in my home, but she s a widder, and you
know a widder always stands in the market-
place, and you never yet knew one to say No
to a man like Job. Now, what am I to do,
Governor?
They 11 want you to live with them.
How could I, Governor, after I have man-
aged this household all these years? No; I must
seek a home of my own
As on some loneli buildings top
The sparrer makes her moan,
Far from the teats of joy and hope
I set and grieve alone,
as the hymn says. But, Governor, I must go
and get the~ dinner~horn and blow it, and I feel
as though it was the last trumpet. Think how
many springs and summers and falls I ye
blowed that hornnigh on to thirty years, and
every time to a good dinner, and that my own
hands have made. When I think of all these
home things, the martin-birds, the chimney-
swallows, the lilacs, the mowins, the huskins,
the work-folks that are dead and gone, and
how I ye done my duty all these years oh!
oh! oh! You do pity me, dont you, Gover-
nor? I shall be so lonesome. You know what it is
to be lonesome, dont you, Governor?~
Yes, Hannah; I ye been a widower ten
years now, and I know what it is to be lone-
some, Hannah. I know what a capable woman
you have been, and I feel for you, and I could nt
bear to see you lonesome. I should have said
so to you before, if it had nt been for Job.40 AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING.
I begin to see now what it must be to be
lonesome. I can sympathize with you now.
But, Hannah, you need nt be lonesome,
and I need nt be lonesome. We can be com-
pany for each other. We ye known each other
all our lives. Now I would nt take you away
from your brother Job, as a matter of principle;
but if he marries the widow, I 11 just marry
you, Hannah, if you 11 have me, Hannah.
Eh? XVhat do you say to that?
0 Governor, Governor, what have I been
sayin and doin! I only came to you in my
trouble because you re a particular friend of
the family, and I had to go to some one.
Oh! oh it seems as though everything was
breakin up. What haze I done!
Thats right. You did just right. Ive been
looking forward to something like this for a
long time, Hannah, so I suppose we are as
good as engaged.
0 Governor, engaged! What shall I say?
Oh, the vicissitudes and the providences and
the changes of this life! I m too old.
But one of the Scripture women was five
hundred when she got married the first time.
Do tell, Governor! Who?
I dont recollect now, but t was so.
I in only fifty, Governor. I do feel kind
of providential. I always had great respect for
you, and you ye always been a particular friend,
of the family. I 11 give you my answer at the
singing circle this afternoon. Let me wait and
see how they act. Now I 11 blow the dinner-
horn, and I 11 blow it as I never blew it before!
They 11 think it is the trumpet of jubilee!
Hannah went to the porch door, and took
down the long tin dinner-horn that had hung
by the door-sill of the old house for a generation,
and had been given a like place in the new.
The blasts of the horn caused the guests
and the workmen on the place to stand still.
Such a vigorous dinner-call had never been
heard on the place before. It made the dog
bark, and the fall chickens run under the cur-
rant-bushes.
The response to the old dinner-horn was
joyful. Hannah had left the final preparation
of the table to Hadley, after she had put on her
best alpaca gown and white kerchief.
The Governor and Hannah came out to the
table together, and Hannah was about to take
her accustomed place as hostess when Job whis-
pered to her:
Sister
How tender that word seemed! He did
not use it often.
Sister, would you mind if Madam Brad-
ford were to take your place to-day?
No, Brother Job; I would be right glad
She sank into a chair, and her face turned
- white as Madam Bradford was seated by Job
at the middle of the table, opposite the blue
gentian flowers. The Governor sat down be-
side her, followed by the selectmen, and then
Elder Cashman rose to say grace.
The table was long and massive. The work-
people were seated at a second table near the
guests, except Hadley and one female domes-
tic who went out to work, who were to
serve.
It would be hard to describe a New Eng-
land Thanksgiving dinner a century after the
days of the Pilgrims. The steaming brown
bread, the baked apples, the apple-sauce, the
succotash, the roast beef, ham, or pork, the
crisp turkey, chickens, and game! The dessert
was a long procession of bountiful dishes, from
the apple-dumplings with potato crusts, sweet-
apple pudding, mince-pies, gingerbread, and
whole preserved clingstone peaches, quince
marmbelaid, to the shagbarks and mugs of
cider.
The room was trimmed with twined creep-
ing-jenny and red alder-berries. Over the
shelf were a gun and powder-horn which had
been used in King Philips war. Beside the
fireplace hung long strings of red peppers,
which were regarded as ornamental. Beside
each plate were five grains of Indian corn, re-
calling historic times, like the green booth and
twigs of the Tabernacle feast of old.
Just as the elder arose to offer thanks for all
of this outward prosperity, Mary Bow came
flitting in. She was the traveling dressmaker,
and in lieu of a local paper was the domestic
news-agent of the Cape towns. It is said that
she had once been partial to Job, but that he
had disappinted her. She entertained no
good feelings toward him, although she was
a warm friend to Hannah. She had an easy
tongue, was very superstitious, always attended
quiltings, apple-parings, and funerals, and was
present on all notable occasions on the Cape,
invited or no invited.
She had brought scandal upon herself only
once, though she carried scandal everywhere.
One June day, when the church windows were
open, and the air dreamy, the sermon had be-
come to herasort of distant hum moving far, far
away, like a bee amongthe sweet-briers. She had
loosened the strings of her bonnet, which was
new, and for the times gay, and oblivion came
upon her, and her head fell back, and her bonnet
dropped over on to the floor, and her nose had
to be tickled by the tithing-man a humiliat-
ing event in those days.
The scene at the table as good Elder Cash-
man lifted his hands was representative. The
elder had a pure, firm Puritan face, that bore
everywhere the certificate of his high character.
Near him sat the selectmen in ruffles and wigs,
and the Brewsters, recalling the days of Scrooby AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. 4
manor-house, when old Elder Brewster first
preached to the poor people on Sunday, and
then fed them. Little Annie Brewster was there,
who had refused the invitation of Lady Wash-
ington in honor of her old Pilgrim blood.
As soon as grace had been said in stately
Hebrew rhetoric, Job turned to Madam Brad-
ford and, with a long departure from the poetry
of the Hebrews, exclaimed:
I 11 sarve the meat, you cut the bread, and
then let everybody help themselves, and not
wait for any compliments, or stand on cere-
mony.
The people all looked toward Hannah, for
she seemed to have been displaced at her usual
royal place and office at the table, and all of
the Cape folks were true friends to the worthy
woman.
Madam Bradford rose and lifted to its side
an enormous loaf ofwhite bread, which had been
placed between a sweet-apple pudding and a
suet pudding in the middle of the table; for
in those bountiful days and occasions food
was not served in courses, but the table was
loaded with the whole meal from the begin-
ning of the service.
Madam Bradford looked handsome and
stately as she lifted the bread-knife.
This is the largest loaf of wheat-bread that
I ever saw, she said. I do not believe that
the like was ever seen in the Colony towns.
She was right. The like had probably never
been seen on the planet. She rested it against
the suet-pudding dish, and whetted the knife
after the old manner on the fork-handle. Just
here Mary Bow tripped up to her elbow, and
said:
Here, Madam Bradford, let me help you.
As the knife and fork in Madams hand were
flying back and forth in the glittering air in the
process of preparation for service, Mary Bow
jumped back, and said:
Hannah!
What, Mary? asked the startled spinster.
What is that on the bottom of the bread,
Hannah? Looklook there!
There was a deep silence. Hadley came
round, lifted his eyebrows, and said:
For the Lor sake! Signs and wonders!
That looks just like the poetry on the old
gravestone up among the savin-trees, for sure!
Madam Bradfords eyes became fixed, as if
they were sot, as one of the guests afterward
described them in provincial adjectives. She
let fall the fork, lifted the knife into the air, and
stepped back slowly, saying in a deep, caver-
nous voice:
Job Pettijohn, what is that?
Beware, my friends, when this you see!
And the letters all face backward!
Mary Bow gave a little shriek. The guests
all dropped their forks, and sat silent. The
crows of the swamp-trees might have held a
convention there undisturbed. Madam broke
the silence again:
What I am now, you soon shall be,
in a reading tone, spelling the words of the
reversed letters.
The spirit of Delightwrote that, said Mary
Bow. It is resurrection poetry! It s all
turned round; that was never done by any
mortal. It s a sign!
The spirit of Delight! exclaimed Madam
Bradford.
Yes, answered Mary, excitedly. She s
been in the oven. It s a warnin! I think it s
a death fetch. It is the handwriting on the
bread!
Job sat with fixed eyes, and Hannah with
lifted hands. One of the selectmen said Hum,
and one pounded his cane, while the others sat
with their forks in the air.
Hadley, what does this mean? said Mad-
am, firmly. Where did that come from?
Hadley stood trembling, with a dish of suc-
cotash in his hand.
Fore Heaven,it come out of the oven.
Who did it?
She, said Mary Bow, her cap-strings fly-
ing. It s a warnin. I tell ye it s a warnin.
This aint no Feast of the Tabernacles, as
Job said; he s a hypercritter; this is the
Feast of Beishazzar, and there s a Jonah
here
At these awful words, Hadley let drop the
dish of succotash, which came down with such
an ominous crash that it caused the poor ne-
gros eyes to roll back in his head.
There, what did I tell you? said Mary
Bow, her ribbons flying around like wool on
the spindle of a spinning-wheel. Just look
there and .read that:
You too like me will soon he gone.
I was
It breaks off there. Lift up the other loaves.
There! There! You that have eyes prepare
for wonders now signs and wonders the
sea ragin and the earth roarin. Look there
on the bottom of that there l~tf. What do
you think of that? Just read it topsyturvy:
The wife of Pettijoha!
Hadley still stood over the broken succo-
tash-dish with lifted eyebrows.
Marys head bobbed, and her sharp eye
fell upon him.
What are you standing there like a stuck
pig for? This is a time to be stirrin, not
starin. Look there!42 AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING.
Fore Heaven, Missus, I just wish that the
yearth would open and swallow us all up.
The guests sat dumb, and the selectmen
stared and listened to the frantic words of
Mary Bow, who believed herself to be the
Daniel of the awe-inspiring event.
That poetry was written by the spirit of
Delight. She copied it off of her gravestone.
It s a warnin to you, Sarah Bradford, and
it came for Hannahs sake. I had an impres-
sion to come here to-night, to this feast of the
Medes and Persians. I never fail to do my
duty, and my tongue is my sword, and I will
not spare. Sarah Bradford, dont you ever
have anything to do with Job Pettijohn. The
times of Cotton Mather have come back
again, the folks have become so selfish and
wicked. Everything here belongs to Hannah
as much as to him. She helped earn it all,
raisin red peppers, and grindin em, and sell-
in em, and dryin apples, and settin soap, and
makin rag carpets, and sellin live geese fea-
thers, and all.
Mary turned to poor Hadley again, who
stood over the ruins of the succotash-bowl like
an ebony statue.
I once knew a woman who could fly,
said she, xvishing to impress the wonders of
the invisible world upon him.
The powers above! I wish I could! said
Hadley. I would.
A guest at one end of the table uplifted a
long loaf of brown bread, and his hands up-
rose a moment later, and all the hands about
him like so many muskets went up into the
air.
She s been here too! said a timid voice.
The bottom of the loaf revealed the pa-
thetic injunction:
Remember me.
Job, said Madam Bradford, these things
are very strange. I dont think I shall ever
change my relations after such an hour as
this.
Beware! said Mary Bow, quoting the
bread.
Just here the coach-dog caught the atmo-
sphere of terror, and threw back his head and
howled directly at Marys heels.
Mary turned like a wheel, and the animal ut-
tered anothe piercing cry, and added to the
atmosphere of nervous excitement.
Hadley, said Hannah, I dont believe
in ghosts, or that anything ever happened with-
out a cause. How came those letters on the
bread?
It mout be Belshazzar, and it mout not,
as she said, said Hadley, nervously. That
poetry used to be on Delights gravestone. It
was dreadful distressin poetry to Job, Missus,
and he told me to hide the stones where they
never would be seen again.
Did you do it, Hadley?
Yes, Missus, that I did. I always obey
Massa.
Well, this is all very strange, said Madam
Bradford. I have nt any appetite left for a
Thanksgiving dinner after this. My nerves are
weak, and I might as well take my bonnet
and go. Hannah, I came here on account of
the Pilgrim Fathers. I never meant to do you
harm. I never thought of the things Job said
to me up-stairs.
What things did he say? asked Hannah,
independently.
Why, it might as well all be known. He
asked me to become his wife.
He did? And what did you tell him,
Madam Bradford?
I told him to wait until after dinner for
an answer, and you see what has happened.
It was never in my heart to injure you, Han-
nah. What Mary says is true. You belong here,
and I never would do a feathers weight of
wrong to any human being, and I love you like
a sister, Hannah.
I never meant to deprive you of a home,
Hannah, said Job. I hoped that you would
share it with us, and be happy. I ye always
been an honest man. It dont need no hants
to teach Job Pettijohn to be honest, and square,
and true.
Well, Madam Bradford, said Hannah, I
wish these things had nt a happened, and
you d a said Yes to Job. I ye carried my-
self pretty straight in life, but I ye misjudged
him.
Hannah gazed again at the bread.
Looks just as though it was staml)ed by a
piece of gravestone. I wish that these things
could be explained. Now, Madam Bradford,
it would make me perfectly happy if you would
have Job; it,would now. It would make me
sing the Thanksgiving hymns after dinner like
a meadow-lark. Job is a good man, if he does
talk rough, and is my brother.
Hannahs eyes again pierced the bread. Sud-
denly there came into her face a flash, and she
turned squarely toward Hadley, and looked at
him in silence.
Hadley! Hadley! Hadley! she at last
exclaimed in a slow, searching, and reproachful
tone. Where did you hide those gravestones?
Heaven have mercy on a poor soul, Missus!
I m done gone, sure. I hid em in the oven/
There was a long silence, followed by a
wonderful lighting up of faces. Madam Brad-
ford sank into her chair. Job supported her.
She presently turned to Hannah, and said:
Then I am engaged!
Hannah turned her chair squarely around, THE POEMS HERE AT HOME. 43
and looked first at Job and then at her beam-
ing guest, and said:
So am I
You, Hannah! said Job, starting up.
~\XTho to?
The Governor, said Hannah in a firm
voice. I would have been engaged before,
but for you, Job.
If ever there was a joyful Thanksgiving un-
derthe oak beams of an old New England farm-
house, it was that which followed. Job got out
his bass-viol immediately at the end of the boun-
tiful meal, and, after tuning it; led the psalm of
praise to the tune of Portland, by Ephraim
Maxim, the favorite composer of that time, who
once went out into the woods to commit suicide
on account of his blighted affections, and, in-
stead, wrote a hymn and tunea matter to be
greatly commended. Amity, a very appro-
priate selection, followed in the tuneful num-
bers, Job swinging the tuning-fork:
How pleasant t is to see
Kindred and friends agree,
Each in their proper station move,
And each fulfil their part of love.
Evening came early, with the November
moon gilding the east as the sun went down
over the dark, cool hills. The red settle, that
throne of old New England wonder-tales, was
brought before the fire, and one of the select-
men, with pipe, snuff-box, and a mug of cider,
told legends of the old Pilgrims and King
Philips war. The far waves of the harbor
glimmered as the moon rose high, and the old
historic scenes lived again in the minds of all.
At nine the great eight-day clock slowly and
heavily struck the hour of separation, and
under the shadow, regret, and pain, Elder
Cashman arose and said:
My friends, the years are short and few,
and lifted his hands, and there fell a silence
over all, with the Apostles Benediction.
Job and the Lieutenant-Governor shook
hands at parting, surrounded by the select-
men, the Brewsters, the merry farm-hands, and
the indoor help.
Well, Governor, this seems like old times,
when you and I were younger than we are
now. I 11 tell ye what, Governor, we ye had
a reglar old-fashioned Thanksgivin!
Hezekiak But/erworth.
THE POEMS
HERE AT HOME.
THE poems here at home! Who 11 write em down
J es as they air,in country and in town,
Sowed thick as clods is crost the fields and lanes,
Er these ere little hop-toads when it rains?
Who 11 voice em, as I heerd a feller say
At speechified on Freedom, t other day,
And soared the Eagle tel, it peared to me,
She was nt bigger n a bumble bee? ~
Who 11 sort em out and set em down, says I,
At s got a stiddy hand enough to try
To do em jestice thout a-foolin some,
And headin facts off when they want to come?
Who s got the lovin eye and heart and brain
To reckonize at nothin s made in vain
At the Good Bein made the bees and birds
And brutes first choice, and us folks afterwards?
What we want, as I sense it, in the line
0 poetry, is somepin yours and mine
Somepin with live-stock in it, and outdoors,
And old crick-bottoms, snags, and sycamores.
Putt weeds in pizen-vines and underbresh,
As well as johnny-jump-ups, all so fresh
And sassy-like! and groun-squirls, yes, and We,
As sayin is We, Us, and Company!

James Whitcomb RileyRiley, James WhitcombThe Poems Here at Home43-44

THE POEMS HERE AT HOME. 43
and looked first at Job and then at her beam-
ing guest, and said:
So am I
You, Hannah! said Job, starting up.
~\XTho to?
The Governor, said Hannah in a firm
voice. I would have been engaged before,
but for you, Job.
If ever there was a joyful Thanksgiving un-
derthe oak beams of an old New England farm-
house, it was that which followed. Job got out
his bass-viol immediately at the end of the boun-
tiful meal, and, after tuning it; led the psalm of
praise to the tune of Portland, by Ephraim
Maxim, the favorite composer of that time, who
once went out into the woods to commit suicide
on account of his blighted affections, and, in-
stead, wrote a hymn and tunea matter to be
greatly commended. Amity, a very appro-
priate selection, followed in the tuneful num-
bers, Job swinging the tuning-fork:
How pleasant t is to see
Kindred and friends agree,
Each in their proper station move,
And each fulfil their part of love.
Evening came early, with the November
moon gilding the east as the sun went down
over the dark, cool hills. The red settle, that
throne of old New England wonder-tales, was
brought before the fire, and one of the select-
men, with pipe, snuff-box, and a mug of cider,
told legends of the old Pilgrims and King
Philips war. The far waves of the harbor
glimmered as the moon rose high, and the old
historic scenes lived again in the minds of all.
At nine the great eight-day clock slowly and
heavily struck the hour of separation, and
under the shadow, regret, and pain, Elder
Cashman arose and said:
My friends, the years are short and few,
and lifted his hands, and there fell a silence
over all, with the Apostles Benediction.
Job and the Lieutenant-Governor shook
hands at parting, surrounded by the select-
men, the Brewsters, the merry farm-hands, and
the indoor help.
Well, Governor, this seems like old times,
when you and I were younger than we are
now. I 11 tell ye what, Governor, we ye had
a reglar old-fashioned Thanksgivin!
Hezekiak But/erworth.
THE POEMS
HERE AT HOME.
THE poems here at home! Who 11 write em down
J es as they air,in country and in town,
Sowed thick as clods is crost the fields and lanes,
Er these ere little hop-toads when it rains?
Who 11 voice em, as I heerd a feller say
At speechified on Freedom, t other day,
And soared the Eagle tel, it peared to me,
She was nt bigger n a bumble bee? ~
Who 11 sort em out and set em down, says I,
At s got a stiddy hand enough to try
To do em jestice thout a-foolin some,
And headin facts off when they want to come?
Who s got the lovin eye and heart and brain
To reckonize at nothin s made in vain
At the Good Bein made the bees and birds
And brutes first choice, and us folks afterwards?
What we want, as I sense it, in the line
0 poetry, is somepin yours and mine
Somepin with live-stock in it, and outdoors,
And old crick-bottoms, snags, and sycamores.
Putt weeds in pizen-vines and underbresh,
As well as johnny-jump-ups, all so fresh
And sassy-like! and groun-squirls, yes, and We,
As sayin is We, Us, and Company! 44 FRANCIS PARKMAN
Putt in old Natures sermonts them s the best;
And casionly hang up a hornets nest
At boys at s run away from school can git
At handy-like and let em tackle it!
Let us be wrought on, of a truth, to feel
Our proneness fer to hurt more than we heal,
In ministratin to our vain delights,
Fergittin even i;zsas has their rights!
No Ladies Amaranth, ner Treasury book,
Ner Night-Thoughts, nuther, ner no Lally Rook!
We want some poetry at s to our taste,
Made out o truck at s jes a-goin to waste
Cause smart folks thinks it s altogether too
Outrageous common cept fer me and you!
Which goes to argy, all sich poetry
Is bliged to rest its hopes on you and me.
PARKMAN.1
FRANCIS
RANCIS PARKMANwasborn in Boston,
F September i6, 1823, in a fine old house of
the colonial period,fronting on BowdoinSquare,
with a grass-plot before it, shaded by tall horse-
chestnut trees, and a garden behind it full of
fruit-trees and honest old-fashioned flowers.
Like many other eminent New Englanders, he
came of a clerical ancestry. His great-grand-
father, by birth a Bostonian, was the first min-
ister of Westborough, Massachusetts.
Itis worth mentioningthata sonofthis clergy-
man, at the age of seventeen, served as private
1 This essay was undertaken at our request by Mr.
Lowell, and was left unfinished at his death. It has
the melancholyinterest of being the last piece of writing
prepared by him for publicaUon. EDITOR OF THE
CENTURY.
fames W/zi/comb Rile).
in a Massachu-
setts regiment dur-
ing that old French
war, as it used to be called,
to which his grandnephew has
given a deeper meaning, and which
he has made alive to us again in all its
vivid picturesqueness of hardihood and
adventure. Another of his sons, returning
to Boston, became a successful merchant
there, a man of marked character and pub-
lic spirit, whose fortune, patiently acquired
in the wise fashion of those days, would have
secured for his grandson a life of lettered ease
had he not made the nobler choice of spend-
ing it in strenuous literary labor. One of this
merchants sons, a clergyman, was our au-
thors father. He still survives in traditions of
an abundant and exquisite humor, provoked
to wilder hazards, and set in stronger relief (as
in Sterne) by the decorum of his cloth. Two
professorships in Harvard College perpetuate
the munificence of Mr. Parkmans family.
Energy of character and aptitude for culture
were a natural inheritance from such ancestors,
and both have been abundantly illustrated in
the life of their descendant.
Whether through deliberate forethought or
unconscious instinct, Mr. Parkman entered
early into an apprenticeship for what was to be
the work of his life. While yet in college, as
we are informed by a note in his Montcalm
and Wolfe, he followed on foot the trail of
Rogers the Ranger in his retreat from Lake
Memphremagog to the Connecticut in ~
In 1846, two years after taking his degree at
Harvard, he made an expedition, demanding

James Russell LowellLowell, James RussellFrancis Parkman44-46

44 FRANCIS PARKMAN
Putt in old Natures sermonts them s the best;
And casionly hang up a hornets nest
At boys at s run away from school can git
At handy-like and let em tackle it!
Let us be wrought on, of a truth, to feel
Our proneness fer to hurt more than we heal,
In ministratin to our vain delights,
Fergittin even i;zsas has their rights!
No Ladies Amaranth, ner Treasury book,
Ner Night-Thoughts, nuther, ner no Lally Rook!
We want some poetry at s to our taste,
Made out o truck at s jes a-goin to waste
Cause smart folks thinks it s altogether too
Outrageous common cept fer me and you!
Which goes to argy, all sich poetry
Is bliged to rest its hopes on you and me.
PARKMAN.1
FRANCIS
RANCIS PARKMANwasborn in Boston,
F September i6, 1823, in a fine old house of
the colonial period,fronting on BowdoinSquare,
with a grass-plot before it, shaded by tall horse-
chestnut trees, and a garden behind it full of
fruit-trees and honest old-fashioned flowers.
Like many other eminent New Englanders, he
came of a clerical ancestry. His great-grand-
father, by birth a Bostonian, was the first min-
ister of Westborough, Massachusetts.
Itis worth mentioningthata sonofthis clergy-
man, at the age of seventeen, served as private
1 This essay was undertaken at our request by Mr.
Lowell, and was left unfinished at his death. It has
the melancholyinterest of being the last piece of writing
prepared by him for publicaUon. EDITOR OF THE
CENTURY.
fames W/zi/comb Rile).
in a Massachu-
setts regiment dur-
ing that old French
war, as it used to be called,
to which his grandnephew has
given a deeper meaning, and which
he has made alive to us again in all its
vivid picturesqueness of hardihood and
adventure. Another of his sons, returning
to Boston, became a successful merchant
there, a man of marked character and pub-
lic spirit, whose fortune, patiently acquired
in the wise fashion of those days, would have
secured for his grandson a life of lettered ease
had he not made the nobler choice of spend-
ing it in strenuous literary labor. One of this
merchants sons, a clergyman, was our au-
thors father. He still survives in traditions of
an abundant and exquisite humor, provoked
to wilder hazards, and set in stronger relief (as
in Sterne) by the decorum of his cloth. Two
professorships in Harvard College perpetuate
the munificence of Mr. Parkmans family.
Energy of character and aptitude for culture
were a natural inheritance from such ancestors,
and both have been abundantly illustrated in
the life of their descendant.
Whether through deliberate forethought or
unconscious instinct, Mr. Parkman entered
early into an apprenticeship for what was to be
the work of his life. While yet in college, as
we are informed by a note in his Montcalm
and Wolfe, he followed on foot the trail of
Rogers the Ranger in his retreat from Lake
Memphremagog to the Connecticut in ~
In 1846, two years after taking his degree at
Harvard, he made an expedition, demanding FRANCIS PARKA/AN 45
as much courage as endurance, to what was
still the Wild West, penetrating as far as the
Rocky Mountains, and living for months among
the Dakotas, as yet untainted in their savage
ways by the pale-face. Since Major Jonathan
Carver, no cultivated man of English blood has
had such opportunities for studying the char-
acter and habits of the North American Indian.
The exposures and privations of this journey
were too much even for Mr. Parkmans vigorous
constitution, and left him a partial cripple for
life. As if this were not enough, another calam-
ity befell him in after years, the most dire of
all for a scholar,in a disease of the eyes which
made the use of them often impossible and
at best precarious. But such was his inward
and spiritual energy, that, in spite of these hope-
less impediments, he has studied on the spot
the scenery of all his narratives, and has con-
trived to sift all the wearisome rubbish heaps
of documents, printed or manuscript, public or
private, where he could hope to find a scrap of
evidence to his purpose.
It is rare, indeed, to find, as they are found in
him, a passion for the picturesque and a native
predilection for rapidity and dash of movement
in helpful society with patience in drudgery and
a scrupulous deference to the rights of facts,
however disconcerting, as at least sleeping-part-
ners in the business of history. Though never
0
putting on the airs of the philosophic historian,
or assuming his privilege to be tiresome, Mr.
Parkman neverloses sight of those links ofcause
and effect, whether to be sought in political the-
ory, religious belief, or mortal incompleteness,
which give to the story of Man a moral, and
reduce the fortuitous to the narrow limits where
it properly belongs.
There was a time, perhaps more fortunate
than ours, when Clio, if her own stylus seemed
too blunt, borrowed that of Calliope, that she
might submit the shews of things to the de-
sires of the mind, and give an epic complete-
ness to her story. Nature had not yet refused
her sympathy to men of heroic breed, and
earth still shuddered, sun and moon still veiled
their faces at the right tragical crisis. The his-
torian could then draw on the accumulated
fancy of mankind in the legend, or on the
sympathy of old religion in the myth. He
was not only permitted, but it xvas a prime
function of his office that he should fuse to-
gether and stamp in one shining medal of ideal
truth all that shabby small change of particu-
lars, each bearing her debased and diminished
image, which we in our day are compelled to
accept as an equivalent. Then the expected
word was always spoken by the right man at
the culminating moment, while now it is only
when Fortune sends us a master of speech like
Lincoln that we cease to regret the princely
largess of Thucydides, Livy, and Tacitus.
Surely it was a piece of good luck for us that
a man of genius should do the speaking for
those who were readier with deeds than with the
phrases to trick them outheroically. Shakspere
is the last who has dealt thus generously with
history in our own tongue. But since we can
no longer have the speech that ought to have
been spoken, it is no small compensation to
get that which was spoken; for there is apt to
be a downrightness and simplicity in the man
of actions words that drive his meaning home
as no eloquence could.
Itis a great merit in Mr. Parkman that he has
sedulously culled from his ample store of docu-
ments every warranted piece of evidence of
this kind that could fortify or enliven his nar-
rative, so that we at least come to know the
actors in his various dramas as well as the
events in which they shared. And thus the cu-
riosity of the imagination and that of the under-
standing are together satisfied. We follow the
casualties of battle with the intense interest of
one who has friends or acquaintance there. ]~vVr.
Parkjnans familiarity also with the scenery of
his narratives is so intimate, his memory of the
eye is so vivid, as almost to persuade us that
ourselves have seen what he describes. We
forget ourselves to swim in the canoe down
rivers that flow out of one primeval silence to
lose themselves in another, or to thread those
expectant solitudes of forest (insuetum ;zemus)
that seem listening with stayed breath for the
inevitable ax, and then launch ourbirchen egg-
shells again on lakes that stretch beyond vision
into the fairyland of conjecture. The world
into which we are led touches the imagination
with pathetic inter& t. It is mainly a world of
silence and of expectation, awaiting the mas-
ters who are to subdue it and to fill it with the
tumult of human life, and of almost more than
human energy.
One of the convincing tests of genius is the
choice of a theme, and no greater felicity can
befall it than to find one both familiar and
fresh. All the better if tradition, however at-
tenuated, have made it already friendly with
our fancy. In the instinct that led him straight
to subjects that seemed waiting for him so
long, Mr. Parkman gave no uncertain proof
of his fitness for an adequate treatment of them.
James Russell Lowell.NOTE ON THE COMPLETION OF MR. PARKMANS WORK.
IE work of Milton is a more
lasting and a vastly nobler mon-
ument of his age and race than
the contemporaneous cathe-
dral, but the men who first ad-
mired St. Pauls did not dream
that a man of Sir Christophers time hadbuilded
better than he. We are materialists, as were our
fathers before us, and we leave intellectual
workers of the higher kind to toil in solitude,
little cheered by appreciation; and when we
give them appreciation we make them share
1t with the mere masqueraders in science.
Only the other day, in a quiet library in Chestnut
street, Boston, a great scholar, who is at the same
time a charming writer, put the last touches to
a work that has cost almost a lifetime of absorb-
ing and devoted toil. Had the resultbeen some-
thing material, a colossal bridge, for example,
like that which stretches above the mast-tops
between New York and Brooklyn, the whole
nation would have watched the last strokes.
But it is possible that the historian of the last
quarter of the nineteenth century in America
will find few events more notable than the com-
pletion of the work of Mr. Francis Parkman
that series of historical narratives, noxv at last.
grown to one whole, in which the romantic ~tory
of the rise, the marvelous expansion, and the
ill-fated ending of the French power in North
America is for the first time adequately told.
Since its charms have been set before us in Mr.
Parkmans picturesque pages, it is easy to un-
derstand that it is one of the finest themes that
ever engaged the pen of the historian. But
before a creative spirit had brooded upon it,
while it yet lay formless and void, none but a
man of original genius could have discovered
a theme fit for a master in the history of a re-
mote and provincial failure. And yet in no
episode of human history is the nature of man
seen in more varied action than in this story of
the struggles of France and England in the new
world. Here is the reaction of an old and civil-
ized world on a new and barbarous continent,
here are the far-reaching travels and breathless
adventures of devoted missionaries, ambitious
explorers and soldiers, money-getting traders,
and courezirs des lois. What a network of mo-
tives religious, patriotic, and personal is
displayed in this emulation of races, religions,
of savage tribes, of European nationalities, of
militaryand commercial adventurers, of intrigu-
ing statesmen and provincial magnates. The
reader lives in the very effervescence that pro-
duced our modern America. In these contests
were decided the mastery of the white man and
the extinction of the red, the dominance of the
Anglo-Saxon on the continent, and the preva-
lence of the English tongue, and these conflicts
played an important part in the evolution of in-
stitutions that are neither English nor French.
A great writer, like any other great character,
is the offspring of two things: the man, and an
opportunity suited to the outfit of the man.
Francis Parkman gravitated to the wilderness
in his early manhood, and lived among the
savages as aiT acute observer of their customs
and their spirit. His literary life has followed
the trend of his individuality. He early began
to write of frontier adventure and character, at
first in fiction, and then in the remarkable series
of historic compositions that now forms one of
the great monuments of our literature. Never
has the very soul of the wilderness been better
understood and reproduced than in some of
these histories.
There has arisen in our time a new school of
historians, men of large and accurate scholar-
ship, who are destitute of skill in literary struc-
ture, and who hold style in contempt. They
dump the crude ore of history into their ponder-
ous sentences, and leave the reader to struggle
with it as he can. There are writers of a higher
type who fail, through no fault of their own, to
acquire an attractive style of narration. The
late & eorge Bancroft, with all his vast erudition,
and his ambitious manner, will never be read
for pleasure, and Mr. Freemans diffuse and
journalistic diction is an eddying tide that only
a courageous reader cares to stem. Away over
on the other hand are the books of Mr. Froude,
which are interesting enough to people willing
to read narratives founded on fact. Mr.
Parkman belongs distinctly to the class of
learned historical scholars who are also skilful
and charming writers. His books, to borrow a
phrase from Augustin Thierry, are important
additions to historical science, and at the same
time works of literary art.
It is no part of my purpose to write a criti-
cism of Mr. Parkmans books. I write only to
celebrate the completion of a work that is a last-
ing honor to our age and nation. In his forty-
five years of work Mr. Parkman has ripened
his judgment and matured his style, and the
later books show a fuller mastery of the art of
writing history, and a more severe taste, than
the earlier productions of the same series. I do
not believe that the literature of America can
show any historical composition at once so valu-
able and so delightful as the two volumes, en-
titled Wolfe and Montcalm, with which the
whole work culminates.
Edward Egg/es/on.
46

Edward EgglestonEggleston, EdwardNote on the Completion of Francis Parkman's Work46-47

NOTE ON THE COMPLETION OF MR. PARKMANS WORK.
IE work of Milton is a more
lasting and a vastly nobler mon-
ument of his age and race than
the contemporaneous cathe-
dral, but the men who first ad-
mired St. Pauls did not dream
that a man of Sir Christophers time hadbuilded
better than he. We are materialists, as were our
fathers before us, and we leave intellectual
workers of the higher kind to toil in solitude,
little cheered by appreciation; and when we
give them appreciation we make them share
1t with the mere masqueraders in science.
Only the other day, in a quiet library in Chestnut
street, Boston, a great scholar, who is at the same
time a charming writer, put the last touches to
a work that has cost almost a lifetime of absorb-
ing and devoted toil. Had the resultbeen some-
thing material, a colossal bridge, for example,
like that which stretches above the mast-tops
between New York and Brooklyn, the whole
nation would have watched the last strokes.
But it is possible that the historian of the last
quarter of the nineteenth century in America
will find few events more notable than the com-
pletion of the work of Mr. Francis Parkman
that series of historical narratives, noxv at last.
grown to one whole, in which the romantic ~tory
of the rise, the marvelous expansion, and the
ill-fated ending of the French power in North
America is for the first time adequately told.
Since its charms have been set before us in Mr.
Parkmans picturesque pages, it is easy to un-
derstand that it is one of the finest themes that
ever engaged the pen of the historian. But
before a creative spirit had brooded upon it,
while it yet lay formless and void, none but a
man of original genius could have discovered
a theme fit for a master in the history of a re-
mote and provincial failure. And yet in no
episode of human history is the nature of man
seen in more varied action than in this story of
the struggles of France and England in the new
world. Here is the reaction of an old and civil-
ized world on a new and barbarous continent,
here are the far-reaching travels and breathless
adventures of devoted missionaries, ambitious
explorers and soldiers, money-getting traders,
and courezirs des lois. What a network of mo-
tives religious, patriotic, and personal is
displayed in this emulation of races, religions,
of savage tribes, of European nationalities, of
militaryand commercial adventurers, of intrigu-
ing statesmen and provincial magnates. The
reader lives in the very effervescence that pro-
duced our modern America. In these contests
were decided the mastery of the white man and
the extinction of the red, the dominance of the
Anglo-Saxon on the continent, and the preva-
lence of the English tongue, and these conflicts
played an important part in the evolution of in-
stitutions that are neither English nor French.
A great writer, like any other great character,
is the offspring of two things: the man, and an
opportunity suited to the outfit of the man.
Francis Parkman gravitated to the wilderness
in his early manhood, and lived among the
savages as aiT acute observer of their customs
and their spirit. His literary life has followed
the trend of his individuality. He early began
to write of frontier adventure and character, at
first in fiction, and then in the remarkable series
of historic compositions that now forms one of
the great monuments of our literature. Never
has the very soul of the wilderness been better
understood and reproduced than in some of
these histories.
There has arisen in our time a new school of
historians, men of large and accurate scholar-
ship, who are destitute of skill in literary struc-
ture, and who hold style in contempt. They
dump the crude ore of history into their ponder-
ous sentences, and leave the reader to struggle
with it as he can. There are writers of a higher
type who fail, through no fault of their own, to
acquire an attractive style of narration. The
late & eorge Bancroft, with all his vast erudition,
and his ambitious manner, will never be read
for pleasure, and Mr. Freemans diffuse and
journalistic diction is an eddying tide that only
a courageous reader cares to stem. Away over
on the other hand are the books of Mr. Froude,
which are interesting enough to people willing
to read narratives founded on fact. Mr.
Parkman belongs distinctly to the class of
learned historical scholars who are also skilful
and charming writers. His books, to borrow a
phrase from Augustin Thierry, are important
additions to historical science, and at the same
time works of literary art.
It is no part of my purpose to write a criti-
cism of Mr. Parkmans books. I write only to
celebrate the completion of a work that is a last-
ing honor to our age and nation. In his forty-
five years of work Mr. Parkman has ripened
his judgment and matured his style, and the
later books show a fuller mastery of the art of
writing history, and a more severe taste, than
the earlier productions of the same series. I do
not believe that the literature of America can
show any historical composition at once so valu-
able and so delightful as the two volumes, en-
titled Wolfe and Montcalm, with which the
whole work culminates.
Edward Egg/es/on.
46POEMS.
MOODS OF THE SOUL.
I. IN TIME OF VICTORY.
AS soldiers after fight confess
The fear their valor would not own
When, ere the battles thunder stress,
The silence made its mightier moan,
Though now the victory be mine
T is of the conflict I must speak,
Still wondering how the Hand Divine
Confounds the mighty with the weak.
To-morrow I may flaunt the foe
Not now; for in the echoing beat
Of fleeing heart-throbs well I know
The bitterness of near defeat.
O friends, ~vho see but steadfast deeds,
Have grace of pity with your pralse.
Crown, if you must, but crown with weeds,
The conquered more deserve your bays.
No, praise the dead ! the ancestral roll
That down their line new courage send,
For moments when against the soul
All hell and half of heaven contend.
J887.
II. IN TIME OF DEFEAT.
YES, here is undisguised defeat
You say, No further fight to lose.
With colors in the dust, t is meet
That tears should flow and looks accuse.
I echo every word of ruth
Or blame: yet have I lost the right
To praise with you the unfaltering Truth,
Whose powersave in mehas might?
Another day, another man;
I am not now what I have been;
Each grain that through the hour-glass ran
Rescued the sinner from his sin.
The Future is my constant friend;
Above all children born to her
Alike her rich affections bend
She, the unchiding comforter.
Perhaps on her unsullied scroll
(Who knows?) there may be writ at last
A fairer record of the soul
For this dark blot upon the Past.
1890.
BROWNING AT ASOLO.
(INSCRIBED TO HIS FRIEND MRS. ARTHUR
BRONSON.)
THIS is the loggia Browning loved,
High on the flank of the friendly town;
These are the hills that his keen eye roved,
The green like a cataract leaping down
To the plain that his pen gave new renown.
There to the west what a range of blue!
The very background Titian drew
To his peerless Loves. 0 tranquil scene!
Who than thy poet fondlier knew
The peaks and the shore and the lore be-
tween?
See! yonder s his Venicethe valiant Spire,
Highest one of the perfect three,
Guarding the others: the Palace choir,
The Temple flashing with opal fire
Bubble and foam oi the sunlit sea.
Yesterday he was part of it all
Sat here, discerning cloud from snow
In the flush of the Alpine afterglow,
Or mused on the vineyard whose wine-
stirred row
Meets in a leafy bacchanal.
Listen a moment how oft did he!
To the bells from Fontaltos distant tower
Leading the evening in . . . ah, me!
Here breathes the whole soul of Italy
As one ~rose bi~eathes with the breath of
the bower.
Sighs were meant for an hour like this
When joy is keen as a thrust of pain.
Do you wonder the poets heart should miss
This touch of rapture in Natures kiss
And dream of Asolo ever again?
Part of it yesterday, we moan?
Nay, he is part of it now, no fear.
What most we love we are that alone.
His body lies under the Minster stone,
But the love of the warm heart lingers here.
LA MURA, AsoLo, June 3 1892.
Ro1~ert Underwood Johnson.
47

Robert Underwood JohnsonJohnson, Robert UnderwoodBrowning at Asolo47

POEMS.
MOODS OF THE SOUL.
I. IN TIME OF VICTORY.
AS soldiers after fight confess
The fear their valor would not own
When, ere the battles thunder stress,
The silence made its mightier moan,
Though now the victory be mine
T is of the conflict I must speak,
Still wondering how the Hand Divine
Confounds the mighty with the weak.
To-morrow I may flaunt the foe
Not now; for in the echoing beat
Of fleeing heart-throbs well I know
The bitterness of near defeat.
O friends, ~vho see but steadfast deeds,
Have grace of pity with your pralse.
Crown, if you must, but crown with weeds,
The conquered more deserve your bays.
No, praise the dead ! the ancestral roll
That down their line new courage send,
For moments when against the soul
All hell and half of heaven contend.
J887.
II. IN TIME OF DEFEAT.
YES, here is undisguised defeat
You say, No further fight to lose.
With colors in the dust, t is meet
That tears should flow and looks accuse.
I echo every word of ruth
Or blame: yet have I lost the right
To praise with you the unfaltering Truth,
Whose powersave in mehas might?
Another day, another man;
I am not now what I have been;
Each grain that through the hour-glass ran
Rescued the sinner from his sin.
The Future is my constant friend;
Above all children born to her
Alike her rich affections bend
She, the unchiding comforter.
Perhaps on her unsullied scroll
(Who knows?) there may be writ at last
A fairer record of the soul
For this dark blot upon the Past.
1890.
BROWNING AT ASOLO.
(INSCRIBED TO HIS FRIEND MRS. ARTHUR
BRONSON.)
THIS is the loggia Browning loved,
High on the flank of the friendly town;
These are the hills that his keen eye roved,
The green like a cataract leaping down
To the plain that his pen gave new renown.
There to the west what a range of blue!
The very background Titian drew
To his peerless Loves. 0 tranquil scene!
Who than thy poet fondlier knew
The peaks and the shore and the lore be-
tween?
See! yonder s his Venicethe valiant Spire,
Highest one of the perfect three,
Guarding the others: the Palace choir,
The Temple flashing with opal fire
Bubble and foam oi the sunlit sea.
Yesterday he was part of it all
Sat here, discerning cloud from snow
In the flush of the Alpine afterglow,
Or mused on the vineyard whose wine-
stirred row
Meets in a leafy bacchanal.
Listen a moment how oft did he!
To the bells from Fontaltos distant tower
Leading the evening in . . . ah, me!
Here breathes the whole soul of Italy
As one ~rose bi~eathes with the breath of
the bower.
Sighs were meant for an hour like this
When joy is keen as a thrust of pain.
Do you wonder the poets heart should miss
This touch of rapture in Natures kiss
And dream of Asolo ever again?
Part of it yesterday, we moan?
Nay, he is part of it now, no fear.
What most we love we are that alone.
His body lies under the Minster stone,
But the love of the warm heart lingers here.
LA MURA, AsoLo, June 3 1892.
Ro1~ert Underwood Johnson.
47

Robert Underwood JohnsonJohnson, Robert UnderwoodMoods of the Soul47-48

POEMS.
MOODS OF THE SOUL.
I. IN TIME OF VICTORY.
AS soldiers after fight confess
The fear their valor would not own
When, ere the battles thunder stress,
The silence made its mightier moan,
Though now the victory be mine
T is of the conflict I must speak,
Still wondering how the Hand Divine
Confounds the mighty with the weak.
To-morrow I may flaunt the foe
Not now; for in the echoing beat
Of fleeing heart-throbs well I know
The bitterness of near defeat.
O friends, ~vho see but steadfast deeds,
Have grace of pity with your pralse.
Crown, if you must, but crown with weeds,
The conquered more deserve your bays.
No, praise the dead ! the ancestral roll
That down their line new courage send,
For moments when against the soul
All hell and half of heaven contend.
J887.
II. IN TIME OF DEFEAT.
YES, here is undisguised defeat
You say, No further fight to lose.
With colors in the dust, t is meet
That tears should flow and looks accuse.
I echo every word of ruth
Or blame: yet have I lost the right
To praise with you the unfaltering Truth,
Whose powersave in mehas might?
Another day, another man;
I am not now what I have been;
Each grain that through the hour-glass ran
Rescued the sinner from his sin.
The Future is my constant friend;
Above all children born to her
Alike her rich affections bend
She, the unchiding comforter.
Perhaps on her unsullied scroll
(Who knows?) there may be writ at last
A fairer record of the soul
For this dark blot upon the Past.
1890.
BROWNING AT ASOLO.
(INSCRIBED TO HIS FRIEND MRS. ARTHUR
BRONSON.)
THIS is the loggia Browning loved,
High on the flank of the friendly town;
These are the hills that his keen eye roved,
The green like a cataract leaping down
To the plain that his pen gave new renown.
There to the west what a range of blue!
The very background Titian drew
To his peerless Loves. 0 tranquil scene!
Who than thy poet fondlier knew
The peaks and the shore and the lore be-
tween?
See! yonder s his Venicethe valiant Spire,
Highest one of the perfect three,
Guarding the others: the Palace choir,
The Temple flashing with opal fire
Bubble and foam oi the sunlit sea.
Yesterday he was part of it all
Sat here, discerning cloud from snow
In the flush of the Alpine afterglow,
Or mused on the vineyard whose wine-
stirred row
Meets in a leafy bacchanal.
Listen a moment how oft did he!
To the bells from Fontaltos distant tower
Leading the evening in . . . ah, me!
Here breathes the whole soul of Italy
As one ~rose bi~eathes with the breath of
the bower.
Sighs were meant for an hour like this
When joy is keen as a thrust of pain.
Do you wonder the poets heart should miss
This touch of rapture in Natures kiss
And dream of Asolo ever again?
Part of it yesterday, we moan?
Nay, he is part of it now, no fear.
What most we love we are that alone.
His body lies under the Minster stone,
But the love of the warm heart lingers here.
LA MURA, AsoLo, June 3 1892.
Ro1~ert Underwood Johnson.
47WHAT I SAW OF THE PARIS COMMUNE. II.
BY ARCHIBALD FORBES.
HORT-LIVED was the hal- firing down on the insurgents from the house-
cyon interval of quietude in fronts. It was to be noticed that there had
Paris during the late evening been no attempt anywhere on the part of the
of Monday, May 23. Before Communists to occupy the houses and fire
midnight, as I lay in my clothes from them on the advancing Versaillists. They
on a sofa in the H6tel de la had been content to utilize barricades, and such
Chauss~e dAntin, I could not sleep forthe burst- cover as the streets casually afforded. The
ing of the shells on the adjacent Boulevard Versaillists, on the other hand, were reported to
Haussmann. In the intervals of the shell-fire be freely occupying the houses and firing down
was audible the steady grunt of the mitrail- from the windows; this I did not yet know of
leuses, and I could distinctly hear the pattering my own knowledge, but I did know that they
of the balls as they rained and ricocheted on the were for the most part very cautious in expos-
asphalt of the boulevard. There came in gusts ing themselves, and that, except in isolated in-
throughout the night the noise of a more dis- stances, they had shown little enterprise, and
tant fire, of which it was impossible to discern done nothing material in the way of hand-to-
the whereabouts. hand fighting.
The dismal din, so perplexing and bewilder- About six oclock I went for a walknot an
ing, continued all night; daybreak brought no unmixed pleasure just at the moment, nor to
cessation of the noise. Turning out in the be indulged in without considerable circum-
chilly dawn, and from the hazardous corner spection. Getting into the Boulevard des Capu-
of the Rue de Ia Chauss~e dAntin looking cines, I found it still held by strong bodies of
cautiously up the Boulevard Haussmann, I national guards, a large proportion of whom
saw before me a stra~lge spectacle of desola- were very drunk, while all were quite at their
tion. Corpses strewed the broad roadway, and ease and in lively spirits. The cross barricade
lay huddled in the recesses of doorways. Some between the head of the Rue de la Paix and
of the bodies were half shrouded by the foliage the corner of the Place de lOp6ra, which had
of the branches of trees which had been torn been shattered the day before by artillery fire
off by the storm of shot and shell. Lampposts, from the Versaillist position at the Made-
kiosks, and tree-stems were shattered or upset leine, was restored, strengthened, and armed
in all directions. The Versaillists, hereabout with cannon and mitrailleuses. Nay, more, I
at least, had certainly not advanced during the was assured by Communist officers that the
night; indeed it seemed that in a measure night firing one had heard had been mainly
they had fallen back, and that the Commu- that directed by them from this barricade, and
nists were holding positions which the day that it had compelled the Versaillist withdrawal
before they had abandoned. The big battery from the Madeleine position. There was a
of the former in front of the P~pini~re Barracks certain confirmation of this in the fact that the
at the head of the Boulevard Haussmann, a great boule~ards were now quite unharassed
position the Versaillists had ~attained to on the by Versaillist fire save for occasional vagrant
previous morning, was still, so far as that boule- obuses which appeared to come from the Tro-
yard was concerned, the limit of their occu- cad6ro direction. I did myself the honor to
pation in force, although they held as an ad- partake of coffee with a hospitable but particu-
vanced post the slight barricade theyhad taken larly tipsy squad of national guardsmen, and
the day before across the boulevard about half- then struck down toward the Palais-Royal to
way down it, at the intersection of the Rue ascertain how it had fared during the night
Tronchet. Over this outpost the battery at the with the Rue St. Honor~ and the Rue de Ri-
P~pini~re was steadily sending cannon and voli. Several of the cross streets had suffered
mitrailleuse fire toward the eastern end of the much from shell-fire, which was still slowly
boulevard, where a few national guards still dropping; but the barricades at the Place du
prowled behind casual cover, throwing a shot Palais-Royal were intact and armed, and the
now and then at the intermediate barricade, great barricade across the Rue de Rivoli at its
Communist sergeants were running about the junction with the Place de la Concorde was
side streets and the Rue Lafayette, ordering still strongly held by the insurgents, sure evi-
the inmates of houses to close their windows dence that the Versaillists were not yet in the
but to open their shuttersthis no doubt as possession of the Place. The Rue St. Honor6,
a precaution against Versaillist sympathizers along which I walked westward, was crossed
48

Archibald ForbesForbes, ArchibaldWhat I Saw of the Paris Commune. II.48-61

WHAT I SAW OF THE PARIS COMMUNE. II.
BY ARCHIBALD FORBES.
HORT-LIVED was the hal- firing down on the insurgents from the house-
cyon interval of quietude in fronts. It was to be noticed that there had
Paris during the late evening been no attempt anywhere on the part of the
of Monday, May 23. Before Communists to occupy the houses and fire
midnight, as I lay in my clothes from them on the advancing Versaillists. They
on a sofa in the H6tel de la had been content to utilize barricades, and such
Chauss~e dAntin, I could not sleep forthe burst- cover as the streets casually afforded. The
ing of the shells on the adjacent Boulevard Versaillists, on the other hand, were reported to
Haussmann. In the intervals of the shell-fire be freely occupying the houses and firing down
was audible the steady grunt of the mitrail- from the windows; this I did not yet know of
leuses, and I could distinctly hear the pattering my own knowledge, but I did know that they
of the balls as they rained and ricocheted on the were for the most part very cautious in expos-
asphalt of the boulevard. There came in gusts ing themselves, and that, except in isolated in-
throughout the night the noise of a more dis- stances, they had shown little enterprise, and
tant fire, of which it was impossible to discern done nothing material in the way of hand-to-
the whereabouts. hand fighting.
The dismal din, so perplexing and bewilder- About six oclock I went for a walknot an
ing, continued all night; daybreak brought no unmixed pleasure just at the moment, nor to
cessation of the noise. Turning out in the be indulged in without considerable circum-
chilly dawn, and from the hazardous corner spection. Getting into the Boulevard des Capu-
of the Rue de Ia Chauss~e dAntin looking cines, I found it still held by strong bodies of
cautiously up the Boulevard Haussmann, I national guards, a large proportion of whom
saw before me a stra~lge spectacle of desola- were very drunk, while all were quite at their
tion. Corpses strewed the broad roadway, and ease and in lively spirits. The cross barricade
lay huddled in the recesses of doorways. Some between the head of the Rue de la Paix and
of the bodies were half shrouded by the foliage the corner of the Place de lOp6ra, which had
of the branches of trees which had been torn been shattered the day before by artillery fire
off by the storm of shot and shell. Lampposts, from the Versaillist position at the Made-
kiosks, and tree-stems were shattered or upset leine, was restored, strengthened, and armed
in all directions. The Versaillists, hereabout with cannon and mitrailleuses. Nay, more, I
at least, had certainly not advanced during the was assured by Communist officers that the
night; indeed it seemed that in a measure night firing one had heard had been mainly
they had fallen back, and that the Commu- that directed by them from this barricade, and
nists were holding positions which the day that it had compelled the Versaillist withdrawal
before they had abandoned. The big battery from the Madeleine position. There was a
of the former in front of the P~pini~re Barracks certain confirmation of this in the fact that the
at the head of the Boulevard Haussmann, a great boule~ards were now quite unharassed
position the Versaillists had ~attained to on the by Versaillist fire save for occasional vagrant
previous morning, was still, so far as that boule- obuses which appeared to come from the Tro-
yard was concerned, the limit of their occu- cad6ro direction. I did myself the honor to
pation in force, although they held as an ad- partake of coffee with a hospitable but particu-
vanced post the slight barricade theyhad taken larly tipsy squad of national guardsmen, and
the day before across the boulevard about half- then struck down toward the Palais-Royal to
way down it, at the intersection of the Rue ascertain how it had fared during the night
Tronchet. Over this outpost the battery at the with the Rue St. Honor~ and the Rue de Ri-
P~pini~re was steadily sending cannon and voli. Several of the cross streets had suffered
mitrailleuse fire toward the eastern end of the much from shell-fire, which was still slowly
boulevard, where a few national guards still dropping; but the barricades at the Place du
prowled behind casual cover, throwing a shot Palais-Royal were intact and armed, and the
now and then at the intermediate barricade, great barricade across the Rue de Rivoli at its
Communist sergeants were running about the junction with the Place de la Concorde was
side streets and the Rue Lafayette, ordering still strongly held by the insurgents, sure evi-
the inmates of houses to close their windows dence that the Versaillists were not yet in the
but to open their shuttersthis no doubt as possession of the Place. The Rue St. Honor6,
a precaution against Versaillist sympathizers along which I walked westward, was crossed
48WHAT! SA [V 01 THE PAEIS COIIJJV/UNE. 49
by frequent barricades, strongly manned by de-
tachments of drunken but resolute men. The
strongest barricade was at the junction of the
Rue St. Hononi with the Rue Royale. Just
here I witnessed one of the strangest imagin-
able cross- question and crooked-answer spec-
tacles. The Versaillists held in force the Rue du
Faubourg St. Hononi, which is the continua-
tion of the Rue St. Hononi west of the Rue
Royale. They were thus in the rearof the great
Communist battery facing the Place de la Con-
corde at the foot of the Rue Royale, yet could
not take it in reverse because of the cross fire
from the barricade which stood across the head
of the Rue St. llonor6. And they were further
blocked by the Versaillist fire from the Corps
L~gislatif across the Seine on the further side
of the Place de la Concorde, directed against
the Communist battery at the foot of the Rue
Royale, and sweeping that thoroughfare in its
rear. The diagram will make the curious situa-
tion more clear; it was a deadlock the forcing
of which neither side seemed inclined to at-
tempt; the situation as it stood was passively
in favor of the Communists.
There were no Versaillists about the Made-
leine, whither the day before they had reached
in force, and where it seemed they had made
good their foothold. Clearly their policy was to
corps Ldgislatif.
tHtHtt
Pont de la 5eine.
concorde.
Place de la concorde.
44444
Battery.
ttttt
Roe St. Honor6.
communists.
B
H
p.
VOL. XLV. 7.
Rue do Faubourg St.
Honord. versaillists in
courtyards and houses.
take no risks, and to economize as much as pos-
sible in the matter of their own lives. A direct
offensive effort along the wide boulevard would
certainly have cost them dear; and, fresh as
the red-breeches were from their German cap-
tivity, their spirit was probably held not quite
an assured thing. It became presently plain
that the policy of the Versaillist leaders over-
night had been reculer pour micux sait/er.
Returning toward my hotel, I recognized
how the Versaillist troops were engaging in the
development of a great turning movement by
their left. Yesterday they had reached the St.
Lazare terminus, apparently on their way to
Montmartre. Now theyhad got sure grip of the
Place and Church of the Trinity at the head
of the Rue de la Chausnie dAntin, and were
working eastward by the narrower streets in
preference to trav~rsing the wider Boulevard
Haussmann. Between ten and eleven oclock,
we in the hotel heard the sound of a fierce fire
at the back of the Cii dAntin; and running
into the Rue Lafitte, I recognized that the
Versaillists had regained the Place of Notre
Dame de Lorette, the man-trap triangle in
which I had got involved on the previous after-
noon, and were now fighting their way along
the Rue de Ch~teaudun, which opens into the
Rue Lafayette considerably eastward ofthe Cii
dAntin. Meanwhile a heavy fire down the
Boulevard Haussmann was being maintained,
so that my hotel seemed in imminent danger of
being surrounded. Regaining its front, and go-
ing forward into the Rue Lafayette, I looked up
eastward to the barricade across it at the junc-
tion of the Rue de Ch~teaudun and prolonged
across the dThouch~ of the latter street, and
~ 2~
DROWN BY H D NICHOLS FROM 0 PAINTING BY LEON Y ESCOSORA.
A VERSAILLlsT.
C
-o
050 T/VJJA I SA W OF THE PARIS COMMUNE.
could see the Communist defenders firing furi-
ously along the Rue de Chi~teaudun. At length
after a strong resistance they brole, and the
Versaillists gained the commanding position.
I watched the red-breeches climbing over the
barricade as they poured out of the Rue de Ch~-
teaudun and established themselves in posses-
sion of the barricade across the Rue Lafayette.
Now (at P. M.) they were firing westward down
that street into the lower end of the Boulevard
Haussmann, while other Versaillist troops were
pressing down the latter, firing heavily, and
covered by shell-fire describing parabola over
their heads and falling in front of them. Thus
the Communist detachments remaining about
the bottom of the Boulevard Haussmann, not
numerically strong, but singularly obstinate,
were taken in front and rear; and indeed in flank
as well, for a rifle-fire was reaching them along
the Rue de la Chauss~e dAntin from the Church
of the Trinity. Parenthetically I may observe
that, standing in the lee of a projection at the
foot of the Rue Lafayette, I was hemmed in be-
tween three fires. There was not a civilian out of
doors anywhere within sight; even the women,
who were so fond of shell fragments, were under
cover now. Communard after Communard,
finding the Boulevard Haussmann too hot to
hold him, was sneaking away out of the devilry,
availing himself of the cover afforded by the
Opera House.
Yet the Versaillists hung back, At half-past
two they had not got so far down the Boule-
vard Haussmann as to be abreast of the Opera
House, from the arms of Apollo on whose
summit the red flag still waved. The Versail-
lists simply would not expose themselves.
About five and twenty Communists were block-
ing the column with an intermittent fire. Two
minutes at the/as de c/large would have given
the regulars the boulevard from end to end;
but they would not make the effort, and instead
they were bursting their way from house to
house, and taking pot-shots out of the windows.
This style of cover-fighting on their part, of
course, left the street free for artillery and mi
TREATING VERSAILLISTS TO WINE,[fT/-fiT / 81 [1 OF ]7/1x RI/CIW (01 /il flAT/I. 5
trailleuse fire. an(l certainly neither was spared.
the hells ami bullets were passing my corner
in one continuous shriek and whistle; the crash
of tailing stucco and the clash of broken glass
were incessant. So scanty were the defenders
that scarce any execution was (lone by all this
e\1)en(Iiture of ammunition ; but it probably
trie(l the nerves of the few Communists left.
that their position was desperate was l)eyon(l
a (built an(i this they (luite recognized, but
were resolute to hold on to the bitterend. Their
efforts were really heroic. just as all seemed
ox er, they got a cannon from somewhere up to
the hea(l of the Rue Hal~vy, and brought it
into action auainst the Versaillist position at
the Church of the Trinity. t4 was all weird and
curious chaos. It was only of one episode that
I couldI be the spectator, but the din that filled
the air told vaguely of other strenuous combats
that were heing fought elsewhere. Above the
smoke of the villainous gtinpow(ler the sum-
mer sun was shining brightly, and spite of the
powder-stench and the smell of blood the air
was halmv. It xvas such a day as macic one
long to be lying on the grass under a hawthorn
hedge. looking at the lamhs at play; and made
one loathe this cowering in a corner, dodging
hot and shell in a most un(lignifie(1 manner,
and without any matches xx herewith to light
ones ~iipe.
For another hour or more my neighbors the
Communists, who had been reinforced ,gave
lianse to the Versaillist effort to descend the
Boulevard Haussmann, and xvere holding their
oxx n against the Versaillist fire from the Church
ot the trinitx and the barrica (Ic on the rise of
the Rue lafayette. the house at the right-hand
corner of the Rue de Ia (hauss(e (lAntin anil
the Rue t afayette the house whose llroject
ing gable xvas my shelterhad caught fire, to
my (lis(ltiietu(le and discomfort; but before the
fire should seriously trouble me the impending
crisis would probably be over. Furious and
more furious xvaxed the firing all around. About
the Opera House it xx as especially fierce. I
had gli (if lighting at close (luarters in the
open space before its rear front, and I could
iliscern men shufflin~ alonu behind the low
,~ b
1)ar~il)et (if its roof. they carried hacks, but I
could not see their breeches, and was not there-
fore xvholly certain that they were Versaillists.
A woman had joined me in my position be-
hind the gahle,awoman who seemed to have
a charmed life. Over an(l over again she walked
out into the fire, looked deliberately about her,
and came back to recount to me with excite(l
volubility the particulars of what she had seen.
She xvas convinced the soldiers on the roof were
Versaillists; yet, as I pointed out to her, the
dra/cazi rouge still wavedi above the statue on
the summit of the lofty building. The people
of the hotel in our rear (learly shared her be-
lief. Gathered timi(Ily in the forte coc/uY(,
they xvere crying Bravo! and clapping their
hands, because they hoped and believedi the
Versaillists xvere xvinning.
The xvoman was right they were Versaillist
linesmen whom xve saxv on the l)~xraI)et of the
Opera House. There xvas a cheer; the peo-
ille of the hotel ran out into the fire, waving
harnlkerchiefs and clapping their hands. the
tricolor xxas xx axing al ox e the hither portico.
AN EXEC TION OF COMM UNAEI)S.52 WHAT I SAW OF THE FAME COMMUNE
The red flag waved still on the farther eleva-
tion. A ladder! a ladder to reach it! was
the excited cry from the group behind me; but
for the moment no ladder was procurable. As
we waited, there darted down the boulevard
to the corner of the Rue Hah~vy a little grig
of a fellow in red breechesone of the old
French linesmen breed. He was all alone, and
appeared to enjoy the loneliness as he took up
his post behind a tree, and fired his first shot at
a Communard dodging about the intersection
of the Rue Taitbout. XVhen is a Frenchman
not dramatic? He fired with an air; he reloaded
with an air; he fired again with a flourish, and
was greeted with cheering and hand clapping
from the gallery behind me, to which the
little fellow was playing. Then he beckoned
us back dramatically, for his next shot was to
be sped up the Rue Lafayette, at a little knot
of Communists who, from a fragment of shel-
ter at the intersection of the Rue Lafitte, were
taking him for their target. Then he faced
about and waved his comrades on with exag-
gerated gestures which recalled those one sees
in a blood-and-thunder melodrama, the Com-
munist bullets all the while cutting
the bark and branches of the tree
which was his cover. Ah! he was
down! Well, he had enjoyed his flash
of recklessness. The woman by my
side and I darted across and carried
him in. We might have spared our-
selves the trouble and risk; he was
dead, with a bullet through his head.
This little distraction had engrossed
us only for a few minutes; the mo-
ment it ended, all our attention went
back to the scene on the roof of the
Opera House. A ladder had been
at length brought; and a Versaillist
soldier was now mounting the statue
of Apollo on the front elevation of
the house, overhanging the Place de
lOp~ra. He tore down the drapeau
rouge, and substituted the tricolor just
as the head of a great column of Ver-
saillist troops came streaming out of
the Rue de la Chauss~e dAntin across
the Boulevard Haussmann, and down
the wide streets toward the great
boulevard. The excitement was hys-
terical. The inhabitants rushed out
of the houses with bottles of wine;
from their windows money was showered into
the street; the women fell on the necks of the
sweaty, dusty men in red breeches, and hugged
them with frantic shouts of V/ye ia ligne ./
The soldiers fraternized warmly; drank, and
pressed forward. Their discipline was most
creditable. When their officers called them
away from the conviviality and the embraces,
they at once obeyed, and reformed companies
promptly at the double. Now the Versaillist
wave had swept over us for good; we were
again people of law and order, and thencefor-
ward abjured any relations some of us smug
bourgeois might have temporarily had with
those atrocious miscreants of Communards
who were now getting decisively beaten. Every-
body displayed raptures ofjoy, and Communist
cards of citizenship were being surreptitiously
torn up in all directions. It was now no longer
ciloyen under pain of being a suspect; the
undemocratic monsieur revived with amus-
ing rapidity.
The Versaillist troops,horse, foot, and ar-
tillery, pouring in steady continuous streams
down the Rue de la Chauss~e dAntin and the
Rue Haldvy, debouched into the great boule-
vard at the Place de lOp~ra, taking in flank
and rear the insurgents holding positions there-
abouts and getting presently a firm grip of the
Boulevard des Capucines westward almost to
the Madeleine. This was done not without hard
fighting and considerable loss, for the Com-
munists fought like wild-cats, and clung ob-
stinately to every spot affording a semblance
of cover. Even when the success mentioned
bad been attained, the situation was still curi-
ously involved. The Versaillists, moving down
the Rue de Ia Paix, were threatening the Place
Vend6me, but avoiding close quarters. The
Communists for their I)art, threatened as they
thus were with being cut off nevertheless still
DRAWN BA A. F. JACCACI.
THE PAVILION OF FLORA, LOUVEF, AFTER THE FIRE.U HAT I SA W OF THE PARIS COMMUNE. 53
DRAWN BY A. F. JACCACI.
RUINS OF THE COUR DES COMPTEA.
held obstinately their artillery barricades at the
foot of the Rue Royale and at the western end
of the Rue St. Honor& The rear face of the
former had been fortified and armed; and so,
although the Versaillist artillery hammered at
its proper front from the Corps L~gislatif, its
rearward guns were able to interfere with the
Versaillist efforts to make good a hold on the
much-battered Madeleine.
I was becoming exceedingly anxious to get
some news sent out, and in order to ascertain
whether there was any prospect of the despatch
of a bag to Versailles from the British Embassy
in the Rue du Faubourg St. Honor6, I started
up the now quiet Boulevard Haussmann, and
by tacks and zigzags got into the Rue dAgues-
seau, which debouches into the Faubourg
nearly opposite the British Embassy. Shells
were bursting very freely in the neighborhood,
but my affair was urgent, and from the corner
of the Rue dAguesseau I stepped out into the
Rue du Faubourg St. Honor~, intending to dart
across to the Embassy gate. I drew back as
a shell splinter whizzed past me close
enough to blow my beard aside. The
street was simply a great tube for shell-
fire; nothing could live in it. Hoping
that the firing might soon abate, I
waited in an entry for an hour. Around
about me there were several ambu-
lances (as the field hospitals had come
to be called in the late war). Into one
close by I saw, for a quarter of an hour,
one wounded man carried every min-
ute I timed the stretchers by my
watch. In others into which I looked,
the courtyards were full of mattresses
and groaning men. A good many
corpses, chiefly of national guards, lay
in the streets, behind the barricades
and in the gutters.
It fell dusk as I waited, the fire
rather increasing than abating in in-
tensity, and I would waste no more
time. As I returned toward my hotel,
I had to cross the line of Versaillist
artillery still pouring southward from
the Church of the Trinity, and so
down the Rue Hal~vy, toward the
quarter where the noise indicated that
hot fighting was still going on. The
gunners received a wild ovation from
the inhabitants of the Chauss~e dAn-
tin. Where, I wondered, had the good
- people secreted the tricolor during all
those days of the Commune? It now
hung from every window in the still
night air; the shouts of Vive la ligue /
stirring itoccasionallywith a lazy throb.
Still the work was not nearly done.
Stray bullets whistled everywhere
the women in their crazy courage had come
to call them sparrows. And as the night
closed in, from the Rue St. Honor~, the Place
Vend6me, and the vicinity of the Palais-Royal
and the H6tel-de-Ville came the noise of heavy,
steady firing of cannon, mitrailleuses, and mus-
ketry, accentuated occasionally by explosions
that made the solid earth tremble.
After a night of horror that seemed inter-
minable, there broke at length the morning of
Wednesday, May 24. When the sun rose, what
a spectacle flouted his beams! The flames from
the palace of the Tuileries, kindled by damna-
ble petroleum, insulted the soft light of the
morning, and cast lurid rays on the grimy
recreant Frenchmen who skulked from their
dastardly incendiarism to pot at their coun-
trymen from behind a barricade. How the
palace blazed! The flames reveled in the his-
toric rooms, made embers of the rich furniture,
burst out the plate-glass windows, brought
down the fantastic roof. It was in the Prince
Imperials wing, facing the Tuileries garden,
V A
~ ~
- A~T ABL
~ A - N-c
N -~54 TVHA iT I SA TV Of TIlE PARIS COMMUNE
where the demon of fire first had his fierce
sway. By eight oclock the whole of this wing
was nearly burnt out. When I reached the end
of the Rue Dauphin, the red belches of flame
were shooting out from the corner facing the
private garden and the Rue Rivoli. It was the
Pavilion Marsan,containing the apartments oc-
~upiecl by the King of Prussia and his suite
during the visit to Paris the year of the Exhibi-
tion. A furious jet of flame was pouring out of
the window at which Bismarck used to sit and
smoke and look out on Paris and the Parisians.
There was a sudden crash. Was it an explosion
or a fall of flooring that caused the great burst
of black smoke and red sparks in ones face?
Who could tell what hell-devices might be
within that blazing pile? It were well surely
to keep at a respectful distance from it. And
so I went eastward to the Place du Palais-
Royal, which was still unsafe by reason of shot
and shell from the neighborhood of the H6tel-
de-Ville. Opposite was the great~archway by
which troops were wont to enter into the Place
du Carrousel. Was the fire there yet? Just so
far and no more. Could the archway be broken
down, the Louvre, with its artistic riches, might
still be saved. But there was none to act or
to direct. The troops were lounging supine
along the streets, intentand who could blame
the weary, powder-grimed men ?on bread
and wine. So the flames leaped on from win-
doxv to window, from chimney to chimney.
They were beyond the arch now; the Pavil
lon de la Bibiioth~que was kindlingthe con-
necting-link between the Tuileries and the
Louvre, built by the late emperor to contain
his private library. Unless an effort to stay
the progress of the flames should be made,
the Louvre and its inestimable contents were
surely doomed. Indeed, the Louvre might be
said to be on fire already, for the Pavillon de
la Biblioth~que was counted a I)art of it. And
on fire, too, were the Palais-Royal and the
H6tel-de-Ville, where the rump of the Com-
mune were cowering amidst their incendia-
rism; and the Ministry of Finance, and many
another public and private building. No won-
(icr that Courbet, SOl-diSalit Minister of Fine
Arts, should have been sending far and wide,
among friends native and foreign, in quest of
a refuge wherein to hi(ie his head!
I turned, sad and sick, from the spectacle
of wanton destruction, to be saddened and
sickened yet ftirther by another spectacle.
Versaillist soldiers, hanging about the foot of
the Rue St. Honor6, were enjoying the cheap
amusement of Conimunard hunting. The
lower-class Parisians of civil life seemed to
me caitiff and yet cruel to the last drop of
their thin, sour, petit b/eu blood. But yester-
day they had been shouting V/ic Za Corn-
rnuue / an(l submitted to be governed by the
said Commune. To-day they rubbed their
hands with livid, currish joy to have it in their
power to denounce a Communard and to re-
veal his hiding-place. Very eager in this pa-
triotic duty were the (lear creatures of women.
They knew the rat-holes into which the poor
devils had squeezed themselves, and they
guided the Versaillist soldiers to the spot with
a fiendish glee. Voi/~t the brave of France, re-
turne(l to such a triumph from an inglorious
captivity! They have found him, then, the
miserable! Yes, they have seized him from
out one of the purliens which Haussmann had
not time to sweep away, and a guard of six
of them hem him round as they march him
into the Rue St. Honor& A tall, pale, hatless
man, with something not ignoble in his bear-
ing. His lower lip is trembling, but his brow
is firm, and the eye of him has some pride
and indeed scorn in it. A veritable Coin-
munard? I ask of my neighbor in the throng.
Questionable, is the reply; I think he
is a milk-seller to whom the woman who has
denounced him owes a score. They yell,
the crowd, my neighbor as loud as any,
Shoot him! Shoot him! the demon-
women most clamorous, of course. An arm
goes up into the air; there are on it the
stripes of a non-commissioned officer, an(l
there is a stick in the fist at the end of the
arm. The stick descends on the bare head
of the pale l)risoner. Ha! the infection has
RUINS OF THE VEATIBULE OF THE TUALERIES.!VIIAT I SAW OF THE PARIS COMMUNE. 55
caught; men club their rifles and bring them
down on that head, or clash them into splin-
ters in their lust for murder. He is down; he
is up again; he is down againthe thuds of
the gun-stocks sounding on him just as when
a man beats a carpet with a stick. A certain
British impulse prompts me to push into the
m~l~e; but it is foolish, and it is useless. They
are firing into the flaccid carcass now; throng-
ing around it as it lies prone, like blow-flies
on a piece of meat. Faugh! his brains are
out and oozing into the gutter, whither the
carrion is presently heaved bodily, to be trod-
den on and mangled presently by the feet of
multitudes and the wheels of gun-carriages.
But, after all, womanhood was not (1uite dead
in that band of bedlamites who had clamored
Shoot him! There was one matron in hys-
terics, who did not seem more than half drunk;
another, with wan, scared face, drew out of the
press a child-bedlamite, her offspring, and, one
might hope, went home ashamed. But surely
for the time all manhood was dead in the sol-
dierv of France to do a deed like this. An
officer one with a bull-throat and the eyes
of Algiers stood by and looked on at the
sport, smoking a cigar. A sharer in the crime
surely was he if there was such a thing as dis-
cipline in the French ranks; if there was not
he might have been pitied if he had not smiled
his cynical approval.
The Commune was in desperate case; but
it was dying hard, with dripping fangs bared
and every bloody claw protruded. It held no
ground now west of the Boulevard Sevastopol
from the river north to the Porte St. Denis.
The Place Vend6me had been carried at two
in the morning; after a desperate struggle the
last man of its Communist garrison had been
bayoneted in the great barricade at the junc-
tion of the Rue Royale with the Place de la
Concorde, and the Versaillist masses could
now gather undisturbed about the Madeleine.
But how about the wild-cat leaders of the
Commune still in possession of the H6tel-de-
Ville, on which ~he Versaillist batteries were
concentrating a fire heavy enough to be called
a bombardment? Their backs were to the wall,
and they were fighting now, not for life, about
that they were reckless,but that they might
work as much evil as might be possible before
their hour should come. The Versaillists did
not dare to make a quick ending by rushing
straight at the barricades around the H6tel-de-
Ville; they were timid about explosions. But
they were mining, sapping, l)urrowing, circum-
venting, breaking through party-walls, and ad-
vancing from back yard to back yard; and it
was a question of only a few hours when they
should pierce the cordon. Meanwhile the hold-
ers of the H6tel-de-Ville were pouring out
death and (lestruction over Paris with indis-
crimmate wildness and fury. Now it was a bou-
quet of shells on the Champs -Elys~es; now a
~11j
\\ ~-;
-- 7
FRAN A PHATADRAPH BY LECADRE.
RUINA OF THE H6TEL-OE-VALLE, AD SEEN FROM THE BRAVER.WHAT I SA W OF THE PARIS COMMUNE.
heavy obus sent crashing into the already bat- morning was in full swing. Denouncements
tered Boulevard Haussmann; nowa great shell by wholesale had become the fashion, and de-
hurtling in the direction of the Avenue de la nouncement and apprehension were duly fol-
Reine Hortense. Cut off by this time from La lowed by braining. It was a relief to quit the
Chapelle and the Gare du Nord, the Reds still truculent cowards and the bloody gutters, and
clung to a barricade in the Rue Lafayette near the yelling women and the Algerian-eyed offi-
the Square Montholon. For its defenders the cers. I strolled away into the Place Vend6me,
way of retreat was open backward into Belle- of which there was current a story that it had
ville. Canny folk, those Versaillists! TIYe Prus- been held for hours by twenty-five Communists
sians no doubt would have let them into Belle- and a woman against all that the Versaillists
ville from the rear, as they had let them into found it in their hearts to do. A considerable
La Chapelle. But Belleville, whether in front force had been massed in the Place; sentries
or from rear, scarcely offered a joyous prospect. xvere in charge of the ruins of the famous col-
It seemed to me that for days to come there umn. In the gutter before the H6tel Bristol lay
might be fighting about that rugged and tur- a corpse buffeted and besmirchedthe corpse,
bulent region, and that there probably the I was told, of the Communist captain of the
Commune would find its last ditch. As for the adjacent barricade, who had held it to the bit-
people in the H6tel-de-Vilie, they, in the ex- ter end and then had shot himself. The Ver-
pressive old phrase, were between the devil and saillist braves had made assurance doubly sure
the deep sea. One enemy, with weapons in his by shooting over and over again into the clay
hands, was outside; another, fire and fire kin- that was once a man. And in the Place there
dled by themselveswas inside. Would they
roast, or risk death at the bayonet point? was
the question I asked myself as I left the sol-
diers stacking the corpses on the flower-beds
of the garden of the Tour St. Jacques, and tried
in vain to see something of the H6tel-de-Ville
from the Pont Neuf. Its face toward the qual
was hidden behind a great blanket of smoke,
through the opacity of which shot occasional
flashes of re(I flame.
Further westward the merry game of the
lay another corpse, that of the 1-Jecate who
fought on the Rue de la Paix barricade with
a persistence and fury of which many spoke.
They might have shot her, yes, when a woman
takes to war she forfeits her immunities,but
in memory of their mothers they might at least
have pulled her scanty rags over the bare limbs
that now outraged decency, and refrained from
abominable bayonet-thrusts.
And now here was the Rue Royale, burn-
ing right royally from end to end. Alas for the
FROM A COMPOSITION PHOTOGRAPH OF THE TIME, MY APPERT. ENGRAVED BY C. A. POWELL.
ASGAGRINATION BY THE COMMUNE OF HOATAGEG IN THE PRISON OF LA ROQUETTE, MAY 24, 0870.WHAT I SA W OF THE PARIS COMMUNE.
lovers of a draught of good English beer in this
parching lime-kiln; the English beer-house at
the corner of the Rue du Faubourg St. Ho-
nori was a heap of blazing ruins. Indeed,
from that corner up to the Place de la Made-
leine, there was not a house on either side of
the noble street that was not on fire. And the
fire had been down the Rue St. Honors, and
up the Faubourg, and was working its swift
hot will along the Rue Boissy. It was hard
to breathe in an atmosphere mainly of petro-
leum-smoke. There was a sun, but his heat
was dominated by the heat of the conflagra-
tion; his rays obscured by the lurid blue-
black smoke that was rising with a greasy
fatness everywhere in the air, filling the eyes
with water, getting into the throat with an
acrid semi-asphyxiation, poisoning the sense
of smell, and turning ones gorge with the
abomination of it. All up the Rue du Fau-
bourg St. Hononi the gutters were full of
blood; there was a barricade at every inter-
section; the house-fronts were scored by shell-
fire, and corpses lay about promiscuously. As
I reached the gate leading into the courtyard
of the British Embassy, the sight of a figure
leaning against one of the pillars gave me a
great shock. Why I should have been thus
affected, it is necessary to explain.
Neither my colleagues nor I had been able
to get a scrap sent out of Paris since Sunday
night, and it was now noon of Wednesda9.
It was not for pleasure nor excitement that
VOL. XLV.8.
we were standing by the Communes bloody
death-bed; we were on duty. I was wretched.
Here I was miserably cii Pair, witnessing in-
deed a momentous struggle, but the spectacle
only useful professionally in order that I might
with all speed transfer the pictures which had
formed themselves on my mental retina to the
pages of my newspaper, and thus make the
world an early sharer with me in a knowledge
of events on the phases and issue of which
the world was hanging. This aim, this aspira-
tion, must ever absorb the war correspondent
to the exclusion of every other consideration
whatsoever. It is for the accomplishment of
this purpose that he lives; I do not know
that he ought to continue to do so if he fails
certainly not if he fails because of a mis-
chance for which he himself is responsible,
On the Tuesday night I could endure the
blockade no longer. Somebody must get out,
if he should descend the face of the enceinte
by a rope. It was arranged that at sunrise on
the Wednesday morning the attempt should
be made by a colleague whose cool courage
events had well tested, who had a good horse,
knew Paris thoroughly, and had a large ac-
quaintance among officers of the Versaillist
army. He took charge of one copy of the
scrappy letters I had written in duplicate in
the intervals of watching the fighting; we
shook hands, wishing each other a good de-
liverance; and at noon of Wednesday I was
congratulating myself on the all but assurance
-~ 57
FROM A COMPOSITiON ~ RIFERT. ENGRAVED SF R. C. COLLINS.
ASSASSINATION BY TIRE COMMUNE OF SIXTY-TWO HOSTAGES, RUE SOAXO, BELLEVILLE, AT 5 P. M., MAY ~6, 5870.WHAT .1 SA [V OF TEE RAMS COMMUNE.
that my letters were already somexvhere about
Abbeville on the way to Calais.
The cheerful impression was abruptly dis-
sipated by the sight that caught my eye as I
entered the Embassy courtyard. My unfor-
tunate colleague was leaning against one of
the pillars, deadly sick, his complexion posi-
tively green, his nerves utterly shattered. He
had tried to get out, and, I doubt not, tried
boldly and energetically; but he had failed.
Hehad been fired upon, and maltreated; he
had been denounced as a Prussian spy, and
had escaped death by the skin of his teeth.
Poor fellow! he bad been spattered with the
blood and brains of denounced men who had
not escaped. He bad given up, and had
taken post where I found him as the likeliest
point at which to meet me and tell me of his
failure.
Of course, as the consequence of that mis-
fortune, it behooved me to make the attempt.
I pondered a few moments, and then went
into the clzaiwellerie of the Embassy, where
I found Mr. Malet, now Sir Edward Malet,
British Ambassador at Berlin. Malet,
who was then second secretary, had
remained in Paris to represent Great
Britain,when Lord Lyonsand the rest
of the Embassy perso;inei had mi-
grated to Versailles at the beginning
of the Commune. He may be said to
have been sitting among ruins, for
the smash of the big house had been
severe. The parquet flooring of the
ball-room was chaos, and the venti-
lation of sundry rooms had been im-
proved by shell-holes. In the garden
walls were great gaps, through which
the Versaillists had worked their
strategic progress round the barri-
cades, respecting much the whole-
ness of their skins.
I had met Malet in the early days
of the recent xvar, when he came out
of Paris to Meaux with commum-
cations for Bismarck. I told him I
meant to try to get out, and asked
him whether I could take anything
to Versailles for him.
My dear fellow, he said, it s
no use your trying. I sent off two
messengers this morning; both have come
backboth had been fired on. We must wait
a day or two until things settle.
Jam going to try to-day, and immediately,
was my answer. You can help me, and at the
same time further your own objects. Put your
despatches into a big official envelop, address
it to Her Majesty the Queen of England,
and intrust me with the packet. No harm can
come of it, anyhow.
After a little excogitation Malet complied,
and, pocketing the envelop, I went to the
stable where my little horse was standing at
livery. The Communist sentry had relieved
himself, and the embargo was off; but the poor
beast, having been half starved and long de-
prived of exercise, was in a state of great debil-
ity. However, I jogged gently along, meeting
with no molestation,until,on the Quai de Passy,
I essayed a little trot; for time was of value.
Presently the poor creature staggered and then
fell on its side, pinning me down by the leg.
I sickened, partly with pain, for I thought my
leg was broken; more, however, in the realiza-
tion of failure to accomplish my purpose if
this hurt had indeed befallen me. A line bat-
talion was passing; half a dozen ~iou-~~ious were
instantly around me. Some dragged the horse
upon his legs, others raised me and carried me
into a wayside cabaret. A glass of wine re-
vived me; my leg was not broken, only the
ankle dislocated. I ordered and paid for half a
dozen bottles of Burgundy, my military friends
carried me out and lifted me into the saddle,
and I went on at a walk, thankful that I bad
come so well out of the little disaster.
I encountered and surmounted sundry sub-
sequent difficulties and dangers; but the crucial
obstacle was still before meat the Point du
Jour Gate, whither I was making eu route for
Versailles. Walking up and down in front of
the guard-house were a colonel and a major
of the line.
No, it is impossible; very sorry, but our
DRAWN RD A. F. JACCACI.
THE GARDEN OF THE RUE HAXO, WHERE THE SIXTY-TWO HOATAGES
WERE ASSASSINATED. (FROM A DRAWING MADE IN DS9D.)WHAT I SA W OF THE PARIS COMMUNE. 59
orders are imperative; you must apply for a
permit to Marshal McMahon, whose quarters
are at the ~cole Militaire. 1 J urged; I en-
treated; I produced my envelop; but all to no
purpose. The colonel went away; the major
remained, and was so good as to accept a cigar.
On his breast was the English Crimean medal,
and on that hint I spoke yet again. I dwelt on
the old comradeship of the French and English
during the days of fighting and hardship be-
fore Sevastopol. That medal he wore was the
Queen of England~ s souvenir; could he delay
a courier carrying to her important despatches?
The old warrior looked cautiously round; we
were alone. He spoke no word, but silently
with his thumb over his shoulder pointed down
the tunnel under the enceinte, at the further
end of which was the open country. When I
had passed the sentry at the exit I drew a long
breath of relief, and pottered on to S~vres, at
which place I left my horse and took carriage
for Versaille?, where my old war time courier
was residing in the despatch-service of the
Daily News resident correspondent.
As I drove up the broad avenue between
Viroflay and Versailles, I overtook a very mis-
erable and dejected company. In file after file
of six tramped a convoy of Communist prison-
ers numbering over two thousand souls. Pa-
tiently and with some apparent consciousness
of pride they marched, linked closely arm in
arm. Among them were many women, some of
them fierce barricade Hecates, others mere girls,
soft and timid, here seemingly because a parent
was here also. All were bareheaded and foul
with dust, many powder-stained as well, and
the burning sun beat down on the frowzy col-
umn. Not the sun only beat down, but also
the flats of sabers wielded by the dashing Chas-
seurs dAfrique who were the escort of those
unfortunates. Their own experience might
have taught them humanity toward their cap-
tives. No saber-blades had descended on their
pates during that long, dreary march from Sedan
to their German captivity; they were the pris-
oners of soldiers. But they were prisoners now
no longer, as they capered on their wiry barb
stallions, and in their pride of cheap victory be-
labored unmercifully the miserables of the Com-
mune. For any overwearied creatures who fell
out or dropped there was short shrift; my driv-
ing-horse had been shying at the corpses on the
road all the way from S~vres. At the head of
the somber column were three or four hundred
men lashed together with ropes, all powder-
stained those, and among them not a few
men in red breeches deserters taken red-
handed. I rather wondered what they did in
this gang; they might as well have died fight-
ing on the barricades, as survive to be made
1 I am not positive that this was the place named.
targets of a day or two later with their backs
against a wall.
To hand Malets despatches to the first sec-
retary of the Embassy (Mr. Sackville West),
and to eat a morsel, did not delay me in Ver-
sailles beyond half an hour; and then I was
off on wheels by the circuitous route through
Ruel and Malmaison and the pontoon bridge
above Argenteuil, to St. Denis and the railway.
As I drove along the green margin of the placid
Seine, the spectacle which the capital presented
can never fade from my memory. On its white
houses the sun still shone; he did not withhold
his beams, spite of the deeds which they illu-
mined. But up through the sunbeams strug-
gled and surged ghastly swart waves and folds
and pillars of dense smoke. Ha! there was a
sharp crack, and then a dull thud on the air.
No gun-fire that, but some great explosion
which must have rocked Paris to its base.
There rose a convolvulus-shaped column of
white smoke, with a jet-like spurt, such as men
describe when Vesuvius bursts into eruption;
then it broke up into fleecy waves and eddied
away to the horizon all round, as the ripple of
a stone thrown into a pool spreads to the waters
edge. The crowd of Germans who sat by the
Seine steadily watching were startled into a
burst of excitement. The excitement might well
have~ been world-wide. Paris the beautiful
was Paris the ghastly, Paris the battered, Paris
the burning, Paris the blood-drenched now.
And this in the present century, aye, but
twenty years ago; Europe professing civiliza-
tion, France boasting of culture, Frenchmen
braining one another with the butt-ends of
muskets, and Paris blazing to the skies! There
wanted but a Nero to fiddle.
Traveling to England and writing hard all
the way in train and boat, I reached London
on Thursday, May 25, and was back in Paris on
Saturday, May 27. All was then virtually over.
The hostages in La Roquette had been shot,
and the H6tel-de-Ville had fallen, on the day
I left. When I returned the Communists were
at their last gasp in the Chateau dEau, the
Buttes de Chaumont, and P~re-Lachaise; on
the afternoon of the 28th, after just one week
of fighting, Marshal MacMahon announced,
I am absolutely master of Paris. On the
following morning I visited P~re-Lachaise,
where the very last shots had been fired.
Bivouac fires had been fed with the souvenirs
of pious sorrow, and the trappings of woe had
been torn down to be used as bedclothes. But
there had been no great amount of fighting in
the cemetery itself. An infallible sign of close
fighting are the dents of many bullets, and
of those there were not very many in Pare-
Lachaise. Shells, however, had fallen freely,
and the results were occasionally very ghastly.
(A
0
H
z
0
0
0
z
0
U WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SA W OF TILE COMMUNE. 6i
But the ghastliest sight in P~re-Lachaise was
in the southeastern corner, where close to the
boundary wall had been a natural hollow. The
hollow was now filled up by dead. One could
measure the dead by the rood. There they lay
tier above tier, each tier powdered over with a
coating of chlorid of lime, two hundred of them
l)atent to the eye, besides those underneath
hidden by the earth covering layer after layer.
Among the dead were many women. There,
thrown up in the sunlight, was a well-rounded
arm with a ring on one of the fingers; there
again was a bust shapely in death; and there
were faces which to look upon made one shud-
der faces distorted out of humanity with
ferocity and agony combined. The ghastly
effect of the dusky white powder on the dulled
eyes, the gnashed teeth, and the jagged beards
cannot be described. How died those men and
women? Were they carted here and laid out
in ghastly lying-in-state in this dead-hole of
P~re-Lachaise? Not so; the hole had been
replenished from close by. There was no dif-
ficulty in reading the open book. Just there
was where they were posted up against yon-
der pock-pitted wall, and shot to death as they
stood or crouched. Let us turn our backs on
the blood-stained scene, and pray that never
again may the civilized world witness such a
week of horrors as Paris underwent in those
bright, early summer days of 1871
ArcAiibald Forbes.
WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SAW OF THE COMMUNE.
7F the beginning of the Fran-
co-Prussian war in Septem-
ber, 1870, we were obliged
to leave Paris very sudden-
ly, and with many others
went to England, where
we rerhained all the winter.
In the spring of J871 my
mother, getting very tired of traveling from one
place to another with a large family, decided to
come back to her home in Paris. All seemed
quiet enough just then, and, as my mother very
truly said she had never beard of two sieges
immediately following each other, we settled
ourselves in our apartment. Mr. Washburne,
the American minister, hearing we were back,
came in to see my mother, and told her to go
at once to London, for he thought Paris no fit
place for women and children. This bit of ad-
vice was disregarded. After a few days had
passed the gates of Paris were closed, and the
second siege, commonly called that of the
Commune, had begun.
Mr. Washburne was very kind, and came to
see us often, sometimes finding us pretty well
frightened. One evening when he came he
found us on our way to the cellar for the night,
but that was almost at the end of the siege. I may
as well state here that I never got so far as the
cellar, but my intimate friends, children of
the concierge, informed me that a great many
people had their mattresses brought down to the
cellar, and slept there every night, experienc-
ing, I suppose, a feeling of safety, as the only
I /
I -~-~- _
WALL WHERE THE COMMUNISTS WERE EXECUTED IN P~EE-LACHAISR. (FROM A DRAWING MADE IN 1891.)

C. W. T.T., C. W.What an American Girl Saw of the Paris Commune61-67

WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SA W OF TILE COMMUNE. 6i
But the ghastliest sight in P~re-Lachaise was
in the southeastern corner, where close to the
boundary wall had been a natural hollow. The
hollow was now filled up by dead. One could
measure the dead by the rood. There they lay
tier above tier, each tier powdered over with a
coating of chlorid of lime, two hundred of them
l)atent to the eye, besides those underneath
hidden by the earth covering layer after layer.
Among the dead were many women. There,
thrown up in the sunlight, was a well-rounded
arm with a ring on one of the fingers; there
again was a bust shapely in death; and there
were faces which to look upon made one shud-
der faces distorted out of humanity with
ferocity and agony combined. The ghastly
effect of the dusky white powder on the dulled
eyes, the gnashed teeth, and the jagged beards
cannot be described. How died those men and
women? Were they carted here and laid out
in ghastly lying-in-state in this dead-hole of
P~re-Lachaise? Not so; the hole had been
replenished from close by. There was no dif-
ficulty in reading the open book. Just there
was where they were posted up against yon-
der pock-pitted wall, and shot to death as they
stood or crouched. Let us turn our backs on
the blood-stained scene, and pray that never
again may the civilized world witness such a
week of horrors as Paris underwent in those
bright, early summer days of 1871
ArcAiibald Forbes.
WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SAW OF THE COMMUNE.
7F the beginning of the Fran-
co-Prussian war in Septem-
ber, 1870, we were obliged
to leave Paris very sudden-
ly, and with many others
went to England, where
we rerhained all the winter.
In the spring of J871 my
mother, getting very tired of traveling from one
place to another with a large family, decided to
come back to her home in Paris. All seemed
quiet enough just then, and, as my mother very
truly said she had never beard of two sieges
immediately following each other, we settled
ourselves in our apartment. Mr. Washburne,
the American minister, hearing we were back,
came in to see my mother, and told her to go
at once to London, for he thought Paris no fit
place for women and children. This bit of ad-
vice was disregarded. After a few days had
passed the gates of Paris were closed, and the
second siege, commonly called that of the
Commune, had begun.
Mr. Washburne was very kind, and came to
see us often, sometimes finding us pretty well
frightened. One evening when he came he
found us on our way to the cellar for the night,
but that was almost at the end of the siege. I may
as well state here that I never got so far as the
cellar, but my intimate friends, children of
the concierge, informed me that a great many
people had their mattresses brought down to the
cellar, and slept there every night, experienc-
ing, I suppose, a feeling of safety, as the only
I /
I -~-~- _
WALL WHERE THE COMMUNISTS WERE EXECUTED IN P~EE-LACHAISR. (FROM A DRAWING MADE IN 1891.)62 WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SAW OF THE COMMUNE.
thing that could then injure them was the fall-
ing of the whole house; and surely that was
more pleasant and quite as effective as muti-
lation by a shell.
At first mother would not believe in the siege,
and when the first cannon was fired she in-
formed us that the noise was not a cannon, It
was only the prte cock? re slamming. She had
to abandon that theory when the Jorte coc/i?re
not only slammed but whistled over the house
in a very peculiar manner. So constant was
the firing that, when an armistice was given,
Paris was disagreeably quiet and monotonous
at least I used to think so. At first every
shot frightened me, and I imagined that every
shell not only was aimed at our house but
would surely strike it. In time I ceased to think
of such a possibility, and at last became so
accustomed to the noise that I rarely heard it.
Indeed when a shell whistled over us or came
near us, I often had not heard, or rather had
not noticed, the explosion of the gun which had
projected it. After a week or so I do not think
any one thought much about the bombard-
ment.
We used to study in the back drawing-room,
the windows of the front room being stuffed with
mattresses to prevent the shells from coming
in; I always thought that if the said shells in-
tended to enter, the sight of a mattress would not
change their course. However, a shell never
tried to get in our front windows, or it might
have disturbed our studies. If, while we were
reading aloud or reciting, a shell exploded near
the house, we would stop for a moment to look
at each other with a listening stare, and then
quietly go on, the monotonous sound of our
voices not changing any more than if we had
been interrupted by a knock at the door. This
behavior on our part may have come from
being so much with our governess, for she cer-
tainly was the coolest and calmest woman I
have ever met. She had been through the
Revolution of 1848 as a child, and I had
heard a great deal about it from her, and had
conceived, as children do, very false impres-
sions. My own idea of war, revolution, or siege
in Paris meant but one thing in the end, which
was that your head had to come off sooner or
later; so my greatest fear (for the first two
weeks) was of soldiers, or any rough-looking
man I met on the street. I believe you can
get accustomed to anything in this world if you
make up your mind to it.
The first time I heard a shell explode, I was
with my two brothers in the conservatory over-
looking the yard; the conservatory had been
made into a play-room. We were standing at
different tables, playing with tin soldiers, some
being Prussians and others French; somehow
I was always a Prussian. My eldest brother
suddenly asked me if I had ever heard an
obus whistle? No! I never had. I was not
paying much attention to this question, or to
his conversation. Well, he said, the other
day I was on the roof with M (the butler),
and we heard the queerest kind of noise, and
he called out to me to lie down and his
story was interrupted by well! it certainly
was a queer kind of noise, a loud whistling
noise, and as it grew nearer and louder, it
seemed as if it would deafen us. I felt my knees
tremble under me, and I slowly sank down to
the floor, xvhere I remained for a few moments,
while the sound gradually grew fainter and
farther away, as the projectile passed without
striking anything. Terribly frightened, I looked
up, and saw that we had all three crouched
down with our faces in our hands; and as we
stood up one after the other, W, with a
long breath and a relieved sigh, simply said,
That s one! I heard a great many after
that, and always threw myself down, as I was
told to do when I could, but I have never been
so frightened as I was that day.
I remember looking out of the front window
one day in company with mother and the maid,
when a shell went straight down our street
without touching anything, until it struck the
last house, which was set on fire. One Sunday
morning we had a rather unpleasant experience.
Aswe were vainly looking for a church in which
to hear mass, we saw a small group of men,
women, and children, and, naturally enough we
joined the crowd. The object of interest proved
to be a man (or, shall I say, a born fool?)
with an obus standing in a bucket of water, a
wet towel wrapped around it; it was still hot
(having fallen without exploding), and he was
slowly unscrewing the cap with a long stick. I
did not see much more, for I was seized by
somebody, and hustled out of the crowd and
down the street. Whether the obus burst, and
killed the clever individual and his friends, I
never learned.
I have heard people say that there were no
cabs to be had in Paris during the Commune
or siege. I do not pretend to know if they
existed during the siege, as I was not there,
but I believe carriages were used for firewood
and horses sold for beef at the butchers. Dur-
ing the Commune, however, cabs were to be
had; very possibly the cabmen drove their
horses till they needed them for dinner, instead
of hanging their carcasses in the cellar, thus
making the poor animals a source of income as
well as of food. My brother was sent for a cab
one day, and, as he was so long away, mother
got very nervous, and went down to the front
door with the governess, wondering what
was detaining him so long. Suddenly they
heard the most frightful explosion from a shell WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SA W OF THE COMMUNE. 63
bursting close at hand. A fearful presentiment
seemed to come over them, as they stood star-
ing at each other. In a little while XV
came running down the street, out of breath,
and red with excitement, holding his hat in
his hands and looking at it, while he moved
it up and down as you would to prevent a
griddle-cake from burning. He said he was on
the Avenue Friedland, when he heard a shell
coming behind him. His first idea xvas to run
away from it, which he did with all his might,
but, finding it was getting the best of him, and
coming straight for him, he threw himself on
the ground, where he remained breathless for a
moment, while it struck the ground half a yard
from him, bounded up to the first floor of a
house, and, striking it, fell down again, at a
little distance from where he was lying. He
jumped up and went toward the shell to pick
it up, when a man came out of the house and
claimed it as having struck his house. Neither
of them could touch it yet, but W , with
natural American blood in his veins, throwing
his hat over it managed to push it in, and ran
off. He smelt strangely of sulphur, when he
appeared before us with his hot treasure.
Fighting against your own people is not
what you might call a pleasant occupation, and a
great many men, having refused to do it, and not
being able to get out of Paris, hid themselves in
the cellars and garrets of their houses. Neigh-
bors are not easily deceived and rarely to be
trusted anywhere; this is particularly true of
the French concierge; therefore it was pretty
well known where the refugees were. The sol-
diers drummed in the streets to call them out.
Some did come out for fear of being shot,
but others did not, and our butler was one
of those who did not. The soldiers usually
drummed three times, then looked for, and
usually found, the concealed ones, I am sorry
to say. But we had better luck, for we man-
aged to keep our prisoner safe till the Versail-
lists came in; not without trouble, however,
and one or two good frights. A paper was sent
with M s full name, ordering him out. Mo-
ther sent word that a man by that name had been
her butler before the war, but that he had left
her to go to fight the Prussians; this was true
enough, and his coming back to us in England
was nobodys business. The next thing was to
try to get him out of Paris, for fear they might
search our apartment for him. The American
flag saved us from that annoyancea piece of
good luck, this flag having been bought (I be-
lieve by mistake) so big that we were usually
mistaken for the American embassy, or some-
how related to it. I believe M thought of
getting through the gates in a cart of soiled
clothes, but one or two men had tried it, had
been found, and instantly shot. Notwithstand
ing the flag, I think mother was rather nervous
about him, and we had a pretty good fright one
day, when the front-door bell rang, and the ser-
vants, rushing to my mother, told her that they
had not opened the door, because it was a sol-
dier who had come to get the butler to shoot
him, as they knew he was there. Whether or
not mother was much frightened I cannot tell;
she spoke for a few moments to our governess,
and then decided to go alone and open the front
door. XVe were very much excited, and I imme-
diately imagined nothing short of a battle in the
antechamber, and M shot before our
eyes. Horrible as the idea was, and fond as I
was of the man, I had a queer feeling that if
anything was going to happen I was going to
witness it, if I died for it, and I was also quite
aware that our side would never give in.
By the time we were all worked up to a great
state of excitement, the door was opened by
mama, who with a frigid stare, and a more than
decided expression about her mouth, faced the
enem)-, and demanded how he dared come to
her apartment and ring her bell. A poor, mild-
looking, and embarrassed man, in the Com-
munist uniform, explained with a humble
manner, and a more humble voice, that he was
sorry to disturb madame, but he had been
obliged to dress like this for safety. Did nt ma-
dame know him? he was the tuner, and had
come to tune her piano.
One morning a report was circulated that
there was an armistice, and it would last about
six hours. The firing had not been heard for
some time, so we naturally believed this little
story, and decided to go, and have a look at
the enemy; they could be easily seen from the
Arc de Triomphe. Accordingly we started out
in a procession loaded with opera-glasses, and
field-glasses, indeed all the glasses we could
get. We saw all we wanted, even a little more.
We marched up th~ Avenue Friedland to the
Arc, where we planted ourselves all in a row
facing the Avenue de la Grande Armie, and
began to examine the enemy. Quite a crowd
of people were with us, principally servants,
children, and some old men and women, all
coming with the same intention, curious to see
the enemy.
Ambulances rushed past, going to and fro.
They were empty going down to the fortifica-
tions, but seemed to be full when coming up. I
think they must have brought back some drunk-
en soldiers, for the ordinary Communist seemed
always drunk. We could see the enemy quite
distinctly, even distinguish the uniform; some
were standing in small groups, a few were near
the cannon, and some were marching from one
place to another, very much like animated tin
soldiers. I was beginning to be bored, though
I do not believe we had been there very long,64 WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SA W OF THE COMMUNE.
when, looking straight before me (without an
opera-glass this time), I saw a big puff of smoke
and a flash of light from one of the distant
cannon. The tin soldiers had fired at us! I do
not think I woke up to the fact that we were being
used as a target till the people near us screamed,
and ran round like chickens with their heads
cut oft; not knowing in the least what they
were going to do next, or where to run to get
out of reach of the cannon. In looking vaguely
round me I saw an old man fall, struck by a piece
of shell; he was instantly killed. I was frigh-
tened, but you must have time to get thoroughly
1 See an article on Gustave Courbet, Artist and
Communist, in this magazine for February, 1884, from
which this picture is taken. EnIToa.
frightened, and I did not have that. I was still
looking at the old man, who had lost his hat as
he fell, and I remember thinking how the top of
his bald head shone in the sunlight, when to my
surprise I was grabbed by the arm by my gover-
ness, and in a minute we were all running as
fast as our legs would carry us down the av-
enue toward home. We never believed in
armistices again, and the opera-glasses were
put away out of sight! We heard afterward
that several persons had been killed, and did
not hear of people going up to the Arc de
Triomphe during the rest of the Commune.
All this time the Communists were building
their barricades as fast as possible, and one had
been put up behind our house, on the Avenue
ENGRAVED BY F. FRENCH.
PULLINO DOWN THE VEND6ME COLUMN. WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SA W OF THE COMMUNE. 65
Friedland. It was quite unpleasant to see it
improve each day, knowing that if they once
mounted their ca~inon on it, we would prob-
ably have the Versaillists passing through our
apartment to take it. We heard very extra-
ordinary stories of the down-town barricades;
the up-town ones were said not to be com-
parable with them, so we decided to judge for
ourselves and see what they looked like. I was
not often taken on down-town walks; that
is the reason I am obliged to confess I never
saw a j51/rolei~se. I heard my sisters talk of
them, and say they had seen them going to be
shot, and literally pulling their hair out by the
roots; some of them were very well dressed,
but I never saw one. We went to the Place
de la Concorde, and actually got a cab to take
us there, or rather a cabman, for he bad to be
thanked for doing us that favor. I have never
seeanything so wonderfully built as was that
barricade; it was across the Rue de Rivoli, in a
line with the Tuileries gardens, and was made en-
tirely ofsand-bagsandbarrelsofsand; one little
passageway, so narrow that only one person
could pass at a time, went zigzag through it.
When it was known that the Colonne Ven-
d6me was to be taken down there was great
excitement in Paris; people would not believe
the Communists would dare to do such a thing.
The day was appointed, and crowds went down
to witness the sight, including every one of our
family. There was no doubt left in anybodys
mind when they arrived on the Place Vend6me,
for there we found the scaffolding up, the
ropes just ready, and men were sawing the
lower part of the column. We might have
stayed to see it come doxvn, but some people
said it would cause an explosion of gas, and
others that the Parisians would not allow the
~column to be taken down, and there would be
a riot, and the crowd was so excited that mother
decided to take us away and to come back after
it was down, which we did. The crowd was
very dense, and ropes were stretched across the
Place to prevent the people crossing or com-
ing too near. Soldiers were walking up and
down with their guns on their shoulders, look-
ing young and sickly.
XVe managed to get near the rope, and there
we stood for a long while staring at the old
column, lying in so many pieces on the ground
and covered with dust. The people seemed to
be less excited. Whether they were cowed or
simply subdued I cannot say; some grumbled
and talked to each other in low voices, some
few in their rage at the destruction of their great
monument swore aloud at the Commune, for-
getting the danger of their position. I felt very
sorry for an old man next to me who was crying
like a child; others looked at him with a pitying
expression, and seemed to wish they could cry
VOL. XLV. 9.
too. Mother and our governess were talking to-
gether in low voices; there was a slight dis-
agreement on a subject. Suddenly, with great
decision on her face, mother lifted the rope,
and, passing under it, started to cross the Place,
but as she turned round to tell us to follow her, a
soldier called out to stop, that it was forbidden
to cross, and finding she took no notice of him,
he came up to her with his bayonet pointed to-
ward her. I suppose he only meant to frighten
her, but he came so near that his bayonet
caught in the black lace on her dress. Now the
Commune was not very particular as to the kind
of soldiers in its service, and the average Com-
munist soldier was from fifteen to twenty-two
or -three years of age. This one was about
twenty, thin, and unhealthy looking. When
mother saw that the gun was entangled in her
lace, she stopped, and, looking at him with a
disgusted stare, said: Just look what you have
done with your stupidity. The boy seemed
quite frightened, and bending over the dress
tried to help my mother disentangle it from
the gun; it was not easy, without tearing it,
and took several minutes. We looked on
breathlessly, not knowing what was to happen
next; but we might have known if we had
thought a little, for, as usual, mother got the
best of it. She quietly shook the lace, and,
turning round without even looking at the sol-
dier, she walked across the Place Vend6me by
herself. There was a slight hesitation on the
governesss part, but it did not last long, for she
lifted the rope and passed under it, followed by
five of us. The soldier again protested, but she
quietly said, je suis avec madame as a in ot
~dordre, and we crossed the Place Vend6me
without any more delays, to the astonishment
of the crowd and the soldiers.
Itwasverynear the end of the siege when the
bill for the taxes was sent in, and it was unpleas-
ant to know that you would have to pay them
over again when th~ troops would have posses-
sion of Paris. The paper was headed Cito-
yenne (with our name badly spelled, of course),
and signed Rajincourt, 41 Rue Garibaldi (Rue
Billantin time of peace). I found this paperlong
afterward, having wrapped a piece of she]l in
it. Mother went to the office by herself, and
told us all about it afterward. She told us she
had been a little nervous on her way there, and
was not very comfortable when she entered the
office or bureau. Two men sat at the table
with their hats on the back of their heads, and a
few others lounged round. As she entered the
room they all turned and stared at her, more
from surprise than rudeness, and one of them,
tilting his chair back, asked what she wanted.
She said she wished to see the superintendent;
he pointed to a man behind the grating of the
desk. Going up to the desk, she told the super-66 WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SA W OF THE COMMUNE.
intendent who she was, that she had received
the bill for the taxes, and was perfectly willing
to pay, but The had come herself to ask if they
would mind waiting for a few days, as with all
this disturbance she had had a little trouble
about money matters. He smiled and was quite
amiable about it; he said he hoped she would
tell her friends how gentil they were, they did
not mind waiting to please the citoyenne, and
coming out from behind his desk, he accom-
panied her toward the door, talking all the
while; and as a last show of his good nature, he
struck her two or three times on the back, re-
marking at the same time that she might tell
people that the Communists were pas aussi
mauvais atre~s tout.
I remember so well the evening the Versail-
list troops entered Paris. It had been a very
noisy night, and several times I was waked by
extra-noisy cannon, and when, at five oclock in
the morning, the one and only cannon on the
barricade of the Avenue Friedland was fired,
I thought it was in my room, and actually shot
myself out of bed. Almost immediately my
brothers came into my room to tell me that the
siege was over, the Versaillists had just entered;
all the front blinds of our house were closed,
and nobody was to look out, as the Commun-
ists were running away to the barricades down-
town, and if we looked out of the windows we
might be shot at.
These were mothers orders, and she was
locked up in her own room with our governess.
We all met in the hall, and talked it over, but
only for a very short time, for we decided that
we would never have another opportunity to
disobey for such a good cause; so we opened
one blind, and, as we were hanging out to see
all ~ve could, the first thing we noticed was our
own mother and the governess craning out
of the other window, both of them having
a very good time. I cannot say I saw very
much, for I was not the first at the window,
but I do not believe my youngest brother saw
anything.
The few Communists who ran by our street
were pushing a cannon as fast as possible, and
some soldiers were running, carrying their guns
anyhow, but the greater part of them went by
the avenues. Then for three days we had a
very bad time of it. Many of the Communists
hid in cellars, and others put on the workmans
blouse, pretending to be delighted to see the
city delivered, but it was not easy to fool the
soldiers, who could find out the truth well
enough from neighbors, and it generally ended
by their being found, dragged out, and shot on
the squares or in the parks.
I happened to be jumping rope in front
of our porte cocA?re, when I saw four soldiers
and an officer; two of the soldiers were half
dragging a man, who was on his knees before
the officer b~gging for his life. It made my
blood run cold, my heart stop beating, to see
that poor wretch on his knees, screaming to be
spared, and the officer holding a pistol at his
head. The soldiers kicked him to make him
get up, and hit, him on the head, so that you
could hear the blows across the street. Some-
body from a window called out to the officer
not to shoot him before so many women and
children, so they pushed and kicked him till
they came to the end of our street, and there
they shot him. As he was being dragged past
our house, they stopped for a moment, and
I saw a little boy about five years of age
go up and kick the man while he was begging
for pity from the officer, and one of the ~t tle
concierge girls I used to play with told me she
had gone to see him shot, and was disappointed
because she came too late.
A great many of the Versaillists entered
by the Avenue Friedland. We stood at the
corner of our street watching them, and mother
had wine and cigarettes distributed to the of-
ficers, as they halted. My brothers and I talked
to the soldiers, who were tired and hungry.
We heard two of them fighting about their
bayonets; one said he had run through five
Communists that morning; no wonder his bayo-
net was bent and full of dry blood. We told one
of the officers that the archbishop had been
murdered ;he would not believe it, and think-
ing that we did not know what we were talking
about, he asked M . They were very angry,
and remarked that they might have entered
sooner, but the orders were not to injure Paris,
and they thought they could force the insur-
gents to surrender. A few days later we went
down to the arcIzevt~ch6 to see the archbishop
before he wa~ buried. There was a great crowd
of people, and we were hurried through the
dark rooms hung with black cloth.
I was often frightened during the Com-
mune, but I do not remember anything more
terrifying than the fires. One night we went
on our roof, and saw Paris burning in eight
different places. Mother and our governess sat
up half the night watching, not daring to go to
bed, while we undressed by the light of the fires.
The Tuileries burned for three days and the sky
was full of black specks and pieces of paper,
lists of things. I have now a list of jewelry
that fell in our yard. I suppose that came from
the Minist~re des Finances, which was burn-
ing at the same time.
C. W 7:THE ROWDY.
WITH PICTURES BY ALFRED KAPPES.
IKE HOLLINS nine-
teenth birthday was event-
ful. To have you under-
stand how eventful, it is
necessary to draw Mikes
portrait. He was the
~ I ~ seventh child of Thomas
Hollin, an honest black
smith who couldand didboast that he
had never scamped a piece of work, broken
his word, or taken the sight of mans fists in
his face without fighting. Hollin belonged
to a trades-union, but it was a trades-union
of the old-fashioned kind; and he despised
the new-fangled notions of the Knights of
Labor.
Mrs. Hollin may be called a semi-Ameri-
can; although her father was an Irishman,
and her mother the daughter of an Irishman
with a touch of some other nationality, she
herself was born in Ohio; and a race that has
been a certain time in America becomes, as
it were, aired off; and the strong national fla-
vor evaporates. Annie Hollins brogue was
enlivened by American idioms; in the same
way her temperament had felt the climate
she was nervous, energetic, warm-hearte~l, hot-
tempered, and tidy. Did you see her wiry
little shape of a Saturday afternoon, hurling
huge pailfuls of water over her back fence into
the convenient ravine that served the neigh-
borhood as a reservoir for tin cans, garbage,
and diphtheria, you would call her a genu-
ine American. Did you see her face, a
small, round face, with a short nose, long up-
per lip, brilliant blue eyes, and black hair,
you would call her, just as decidedly, an
Irishwoman, of course. But even her Irish
face had an American touch, for she wore her
hair clipped short like a mans: she never had
time for long hair, she said. All her life she
had been looking forward to a day of suffi-
cient leisure to do up her hair; so far, the
leisure was a mirage, receding as life ad-
vanced. Hollin was her third husband. The
other two she had lost; one by death, one by
divorce. She had seen hard days, had wept
over little coffins, and known what it was to
be cold, and hungry, and bruised. If she had
not,so she sometimes told Hollin, she
never would have married again.
It was not Hollins way to retort on such
occasions, he being a man of deep experience
in the married state a widower with six chil-
dren on his second wedding-day. He only
puffed the harder at his pipe, and, if the at-
mosphere grew too dense, put on his hat.
Mrs. Hollin was not a bad stepmother:
she kept the children warm, neat, and well
fed; if she cuffed them vigorously in her tem-
pers, she made amends by lavish indulgence
at other times, and there never was a more
fearless or devoted nurse in sickness. Mike
was the couples only child. Notwithstanding
his advent, the family circle dwindled. Tom,
the eldest son, a stolid, good fellow like his
father, married and moved to another town;
two of the sisters died of diphtheria; the eldest
girl was married; one sister went out to ser-
vice; the brother next to Mike fell into the cis-
tern, and before Mike left school he was the only
child at home. This departure from school
occurred suddenly when Mike was fourteen;
the direct cause being his fathers running up
against him just as he swaggered out of a
saloon.
That s what they learn ye at school, is
it? said old Tom, grimly. Time you was at
work! And to work Mike went the very next
morning, in spite of his mothers protestations
and promises. Many were the tears shed by
Annie Hollin because of Mikes lost learn-
ing; for she gave the fetish-like worship of
her class to education.
But Mike did not regret the school. Study
was irksome to him, and work suited him bet-
ter than any one could have expected; he
really had plenty ~f energy. Moreover, Hol-
lin had shrewdly gaged the youngsters mind.
He told him that he could have all he made
over two dollars a week. The work was piece-
work, and Mike very soon rose out of his hum-
ble beginning as errand-boy for the foreman
in the machine-shop of the Agricultural Im-
plement Company, for which his father worked,
to a bench of his own, and the right to counter-
sink cultivator-shovels at ten cents a hundred.
Mikes spiritual training was not cut short like
his secular education; on the contrary, although
his father never went to church, and his mother
seldom, I am inclined to think that the boy suf-
fered from a plethora of religious advantages.
He attended no less than four Sunday-schools
Roman Catholic, Presbyterian, Episcopal, and
Unitarian. He went to the first school because
his mother had been born in the Church of
67

Octave ThanetThanet, OctaveThe Rowdy67-79

THE ROWDY.
WITH PICTURES BY ALFRED KAPPES.
IKE HOLLINS nine-
teenth birthday was event-
ful. To have you under-
stand how eventful, it is
necessary to draw Mikes
portrait. He was the
~ I ~ seventh child of Thomas
Hollin, an honest black
smith who couldand didboast that he
had never scamped a piece of work, broken
his word, or taken the sight of mans fists in
his face without fighting. Hollin belonged
to a trades-union, but it was a trades-union
of the old-fashioned kind; and he despised
the new-fangled notions of the Knights of
Labor.
Mrs. Hollin may be called a semi-Ameri-
can; although her father was an Irishman,
and her mother the daughter of an Irishman
with a touch of some other nationality, she
herself was born in Ohio; and a race that has
been a certain time in America becomes, as
it were, aired off; and the strong national fla-
vor evaporates. Annie Hollins brogue was
enlivened by American idioms; in the same
way her temperament had felt the climate
she was nervous, energetic, warm-hearte~l, hot-
tempered, and tidy. Did you see her wiry
little shape of a Saturday afternoon, hurling
huge pailfuls of water over her back fence into
the convenient ravine that served the neigh-
borhood as a reservoir for tin cans, garbage,
and diphtheria, you would call her a genu-
ine American. Did you see her face, a
small, round face, with a short nose, long up-
per lip, brilliant blue eyes, and black hair,
you would call her, just as decidedly, an
Irishwoman, of course. But even her Irish
face had an American touch, for she wore her
hair clipped short like a mans: she never had
time for long hair, she said. All her life she
had been looking forward to a day of suffi-
cient leisure to do up her hair; so far, the
leisure was a mirage, receding as life ad-
vanced. Hollin was her third husband. The
other two she had lost; one by death, one by
divorce. She had seen hard days, had wept
over little coffins, and known what it was to
be cold, and hungry, and bruised. If she had
not,so she sometimes told Hollin, she
never would have married again.
It was not Hollins way to retort on such
occasions, he being a man of deep experience
in the married state a widower with six chil-
dren on his second wedding-day. He only
puffed the harder at his pipe, and, if the at-
mosphere grew too dense, put on his hat.
Mrs. Hollin was not a bad stepmother:
she kept the children warm, neat, and well
fed; if she cuffed them vigorously in her tem-
pers, she made amends by lavish indulgence
at other times, and there never was a more
fearless or devoted nurse in sickness. Mike
was the couples only child. Notwithstanding
his advent, the family circle dwindled. Tom,
the eldest son, a stolid, good fellow like his
father, married and moved to another town;
two of the sisters died of diphtheria; the eldest
girl was married; one sister went out to ser-
vice; the brother next to Mike fell into the cis-
tern, and before Mike left school he was the only
child at home. This departure from school
occurred suddenly when Mike was fourteen;
the direct cause being his fathers running up
against him just as he swaggered out of a
saloon.
That s what they learn ye at school, is
it? said old Tom, grimly. Time you was at
work! And to work Mike went the very next
morning, in spite of his mothers protestations
and promises. Many were the tears shed by
Annie Hollin because of Mikes lost learn-
ing; for she gave the fetish-like worship of
her class to education.
But Mike did not regret the school. Study
was irksome to him, and work suited him bet-
ter than any one could have expected; he
really had plenty ~f energy. Moreover, Hol-
lin had shrewdly gaged the youngsters mind.
He told him that he could have all he made
over two dollars a week. The work was piece-
work, and Mike very soon rose out of his hum-
ble beginning as errand-boy for the foreman
in the machine-shop of the Agricultural Im-
plement Company, for which his father worked,
to a bench of his own, and the right to counter-
sink cultivator-shovels at ten cents a hundred.
Mikes spiritual training was not cut short like
his secular education; on the contrary, although
his father never went to church, and his mother
seldom, I am inclined to think that the boy suf-
fered from a plethora of religious advantages.
He attended no less than four Sunday-schools
Roman Catholic, Presbyterian, Episcopal, and
Unitarian. He went to the first school because
his mother had been born in the Church of
67 68 THE ROWDY
Rome, and, long since estranged from it, still
felt its attraction, and cherished vague hopes
of reconciliation when she could afford it.
Therefore, she sent Mike to Father Kelly as
clay to the potter. The other three Sunday-
schools Mike attended on his own account
because they had picnics and Christmas-trees.
It may be imagined that his religious instruc-
tion was variegated, even contradictory. Lit-
tle, however, did contradictions trouble our
young heretic; since his four guides each told
him a different story of the way of life, he took
a short cut out of all difficulties by believing
none of them. At sixteen Mike was beyond
reach of such modest bribery as Christmas-trees
and picnics can offer. He preferred to spend
his Sundays dangling his legs from an empty
packing-box at the street corner, puffing at a
rank cigar, his ears gulping down unsavory gos-
sip, taking new lessons in the cheap vices; at
intervals (presuming him to have a few pen-
nies, or some talker in the crowd to be in a
generous mood) refreshing himself at the ad-
acent saloons. The town being under so-called
prohibitory laws, you could nt throw a stone
anywhere without hitting a green screen.
By the time he was nineteen Mike knew how
to drink, smoke, swear fluently, box in a crude
fashion, and lose his money at any gambling
game without wincing. He knew some other
ways of pleasing the devil, if one may believe
his father; in fact, he was a rowdy, the kind
of fellow that women hurry past on the streets.
But none the less was he his mothers idol. She
dowered him with all the treasures of her
dreams, from curly hairthe best you could say
of Mikes red locks was that they were crooked
at the endstoa sweet disposition. He was
such a handy boy about the house (Mike did
care for his mother in a careless way, and had
the grace to help her, occasionally, with a tub
or a basket of wood). Then Mike was .nt like
them Murray boys, never could spend an
evening home, always loafing and guzzling at
the saloons, Mike was a great reader, he read
aloud beautifully! If only Hollin had let him
get an education, there was no knowing where
he would have stopped. The truth was, Mike
read a socialist newspaper, and some novels of
the baser sort.
Yet I am not denying some virtues in the
mire. By nature Mike had a sweet temper. He
was neither envious nor churlish; and he was
kind to helpless creatures, the fowls, the dog,
the cow, and the children. He had a distorted
sense of honor, that, so far, getting tangled up
with his class feeling, had done him more harm
than good. For instance, honor, egged on by
class feeling, hampered him in his work, not
permitting him to be industrious or a notable
artisan, of which there were the makings in
Mike, for he was nice-fingered, quick-witted,
and patient; but where work is done by the piece,
it is not considered square to the other fellows
to do too many pieces daily. Should you be so
inconsiderate, the boss may put down the
price on you; then, the slow workers will be in
trouble, while the brisk workers cannot make
any more. Therefore a shrewd mechanic will
nurse his job!
Mike brimmed over with class feeling. He
belonged to a union and to the Knights of Labor,
and to a mysterious organization without a name
that carried its aims farther than most men out
of the penitentiary care to go. All the enthu-
siasm, all the capacity for reckless devotion, that
belong to his own age and his mothers race,
poured into this one channel zeal for his class.
Mike was as proud because he was a Knight
of Labor as any medieval knight ever was of
his gold spurs. He bragged and he fought for
the orderbragged to his father, and fought
three miserable rats in the shop that refused
to join the Knights and resented having their
tools stolen: that was how his nose got broken.
He made sacrifices for the cause, going without
tobacco one whole month that he might con-
tribute his share to what his father called the
foolest fool strike in the country.
Mike was capable of hero-worship also; he
admired the foreman of his shop, Bill Nicker,
who once had drawn a fifty-dollar prize in the
Louisiana Lottery, and henceforth was a prime
authority on betting, and knew how to drive
so well that the livery stables would trust him
with fast horses. Only second to this hero
was a big fellow in the blacksmith shop about
whom there was a dark rumor that he had once
stood up against John L. Sullivan, in a round
at an exhibition, with bare fists! Mike him-
self never would make a pugilist, because he
was a stunted little creature, agile and endur-
ing, but small like his mother. All the more did
he esteem inChes and muscle. Secretly he ad-
mired his father; though Hollin made no se-
cret that he despised his son.
He aint no good, and never will be, fumed
Tom; calling himself a Knight of Lahor,
striking for every cat that squalls; wanting to
buy cigars, what business as a kid like im
got with cigars, anyhow ? not wanting to
buy them at Carters, cause Carters men was
on the strike! Now what the is it his look-
out what Carters men does? They does nt
consult us when they strikes, and why the
should we be paying for their fun? T aint
the way I was brought up. And them Knights
aint the wust, neither. He belongs to some
other society that he keeps almighty dark
about. Guess the darker he keeps the better.
That Bill Nicker s a bad egg; if he dont end
on the gallows, I miss my guess. And Mike s THE ROWDY 69
lucky if he dont git there with him. He s woes of the world, which goads on many so-
going to the devil fast s I ever see a boy cialists: not he, not William Nicker, who could
yet. smoke his pipe when home on a strike, and let
No, he aint, neither! Hollins wife, who his wife fill her tubs to earn him drink-money;
naturally got most of these gruesome suspi- but he did have an unaffected hatred of the rich
cions, would cry. No, he aint; and you that he was convinced was sympathy for the
know it, Hollin. And you ought to be shamed poor. Thus he was a fanatic, with something
talkin so of your own son. Mike may be a of the fanatics momentum. Mike considered
little wild; but he never got drunk in his life, him one of the great reformers of the century;
and he 11 come out all right, you 11 see. but Mikes father, havingbeen put to some trou-
Perhaps in his secret soul old Tom craved ble by Nickers shifty ~vorkmanship, was out-
to be proved wrong; for he never resented spoken against him, and usually called him
Annies vehemence; rather, at times he seemed Gasbag.
to invite it, as if he would see the other side Nicker was the real mover in the strange ex-
of the argument, if he could. perience that came to Mike on his birthday.
In fact, however, Mikes society justified his There had been a change of ownership in the
fathers fears. The doctrines would have scared works. A new company had bought them, and
any one except an anarchist. All the regular or- a new superintendent had been sent to the shops.
ders of labor have an unacknowledged and des- The men were suspicious of the change; Nicker
perate kind of following, that are to them what said harsh things of the owners. But Hollin
guerrillas are to armies. Few people under- exulted. For one thing, his son Tom was com-
stand how important a part such irregulars ing with Mr. Thorne; and Tom was the good,
play in strikes. The younger and wilder spirits dutiful son whom old Tom loved, the rising
belong to these secret bands; they are the man of whom old Tom was proud.
ones having least to lose and most to gain, They say the new superintendent aint
are always ready for a strike, tickled at the much more n a boy, Mike grumbled on one
notion of the holiday, sure of being supported occasion.
in idleness while the strike lasts (never having Humph! said old Tom, one thing in his
a penny of their own by any chance to fall favor; he learned the business in the shop,
back on), glad to get the better wage if the com~ back from college, and put on his over-
strike be successful, hardly the worse in any alls, and got up at six, and kept hours. Say he
event. kin do anything in the shops; invented a dandy
Bill Nicker, already mentioned, was the on- spring to the cultivators; knows a good job
ginator of Mikes society; Tom Hollin, ju- from a poor one across the street: that s the
nior, afterward declared that Bill made most sort for me!
of it up out of his own head. I cannot say Bill Nicker says he s a spy, said Mike;
how far he was right: certainly Mike had no says he worked in the shop and found out
suspicions; he believed in the society, and all how much the fellers kin do if they hump them-
its vague and tremendous penalties, with unc- selves; and kept doing that much; so they put
tion; he was afire to distinguish himself, and down the price.
felt vastly superior to the workmen who did I mind Bill Nicker came from the Thornes,
not belong. and he got a hand mashed fooling with a punch.
Long ago said wise Francis of Verulam: They paid him his~vages full time and all the
There is nothing makes a man suspect much, doctors bills
more than to know little. Every man or boy That s cause they re insured; Bill told
to say truth, most of the members were nearer me bout it.
boyhood than manhoodin Mikes society Guess they got to pay fer insurance, then.
was convinced that he was wronged, even where Pay comes at one end or nother; no great dif-
he could not place the wrong. And, as igno- ference cept to a fool like Bill. And they sent
rance is equally as hopeful as suspicious, they him off oh, I know all bout Gasbag they
gave to Nickers artless schemes for turning sent him off fer stirring up bad blood with the
the world upside down a faith that ought to men. He got up a strike; but it did nt pay,
move mountains, and the Knights Lodge there was close to
Nicker was a socialist, anarchist, moral out- firing him, they was. If ye want to know, that s
law, every inch of him, having that facility for why he hates Thorne like pizen. The old man
turning sentences that often passes for logic, puffed a minute, then summed up his case:
He did nt always quite know what he meant Tell ye, Mike, them Thornes is pretty decent
himself, and his hearers never did, but they folks, and fer one I m glad they bought us
listened to his flatulent eloquence with awe. out. I know they give their men fair living
He was not a lover of humanity, he had none wages, and some of the older ones gits a share
of the pathetic frenzy of longing to help the of the profits. There s Tom; he was keen toTHE ROWDY.
70
have me go there when he left; now he s a fore-
man, been with em three year, and got his
wages raised twice without his saying a word.
He gits thirty dollars a week now. I wish
to the Lord I d gone with him when he first
went, for he says they know a good man when
they see him, and are willing to pay for good
work.
Well, I know one thing, said Mike, sulkily,
we aint a-going to have any interference with
our organizing here. That young Thorne s
got to quit fighting organized labor, or we 11
strike!
My, what a long tail our cat s got! said
old Tom, with a Rabelaisian grimace. Guess
you better try to see what good work you kin
do, and, my word for it, you wont have to
strike. Look at Tom. He dont belong to no
Union nor no Knights, and he s dumb up and
up and up!
I aint a-going to desert my comrades,
anyhow, came round the corner of Mikes
collar.
His father took a stride forward, and tapped
him on the shoulder. The old man looked
very tall, there at his elbow, and Mike was im-
pressed by something unusual, almost solemn,
in his expression.
Mike, he said, I ye been living and
thinking a good while; and I know enough to~
know I aint going to do a bit of good by talk-
ing to you. No matter; itll free mymind to tell.
You re all wrong, boy, clean wrong, you and
your societies. The way to help all the other
fellers is to be a decent feller yourself. And
it s a heap easier fer the strongest feller to
climb the hill fust, and then and all the
whilebe lendin a hand to the hindmost,
than it is to have the strong one stay under-
neath a-boostin and a-boostin up fellers that
aint got sprawl enough to help themselves
when they are boosted. I tell ye, Mike, it s
all wrong.
Mike was not convinced, but he was cowed
by his fathers earnestness; he took refuge in
sulky silence, glad to see the shop doors.
The superintendent came. He was a tall,
slim, smiling young fellow, in the last fashion
of clothes, with very bright, dark eyes. He did
look absurdly young and gentle, pretty as
a girl! jeered Mike,but there was a faint
contraction of the eyebrows giving to those
bright and soft dark eyes a mingled steadiness
and keenness of gaze, and a look that in a
mans face never means but one thing.
He s a hard hitter when he s mad, or I
miss my guess, said old Tom.
The first thing to happen was a strike, the
cause being persecution of organized labor, in-
somuch as Thorne had discharged four mem-
bers of Mikes nameless society for drunkenness
and inefficiency. Nicker was one of the men
discharged. He had declared that it was not
possible for his men to turn out more work a
day than they did, without injury to the quality
of the work; Thorne had replied that more
work was done in the other shops, and if Nicker
could nt get it done, he would try to find some
one who could. Nicker kicked the metal wheel
in his hands to the end of the shop, and picked
up his coat, profanely giving Thorne permis-
sion to try.
The condition of affairs was ripe for mis-
chief. The former owners had been neither
better nor worse than the bulk of their kind.
As they themselves said, they were not running
the implement business as a missionary enter-
prise, but to make money; it did not strike
them as unfair or especially hard-hearted to
pare down the mens wages in winter, when
work was slack, and the shop could afford an
idle time far better than workingmen with
families. If the men did not like the wages,
they could quit, which option the hotheads
were for taking; but they, in general, had no
children to clothe, or stoves to keep going, or
butchers and bakers to satisfy. The men grum-
bled; but they did not strike. They organized,
and bided their chance. Thorne walked into
a crater. The season was summer now the
shops were running full time on heavy orders;
it was the mens turn at the screw. Nicker was
mightily busy with insinuations; whispering
ugly stories about the Thornes determination
to root out labor organizations, and splen-
did promises of successif they all pulled
together. On the other hand, Tom Hollin
and the men that came with Thorne repre-
sented that the new company (Thornes father
and brothers) were fair men, who made their
contracts at the beginning of the year, and
stood by them. They would nt ask better men
to work for.
But an urTeasy suspicion clings to the work-
man outside the unions and too successful to
side with his mates. Tom Hollin had bought
a house; his wife kept a hired girl; Sunday
afternoons he would go driving in a buggy, with
his wife and baby, dressed up like a gentleman.
You could nt expect such a man to be in
touch with the toiling millions! declaimed Bill
Nicker. Nevertheless, the Hollins and a few
more of the cautious workmen did succeed in
averting a general strike, and in persuading
the local Knights of Labor to be neutral. Thus
from the first the strike was doomed; in less
than a weeks time Thorne had filled half the
empty benches with new men. The strikers
began to be frightened. They sent a deputa-
tion to Thorne, who told them that what places
were not already filled were open to the first
comers; he would not discharge the men he THE ROWDY 7
had hired. While he spoke he brushed an in-
significant mustache with a hot-house. rose,
looking more ami~able and girlish than ever;
but he was no more to be stirred than the
huge engine buzzing outside.
They dont belong to the Knights or the
union or nothing, urged Mike, one of the
deputation.
Dont they? said the superintendent. I
did nt inquire. If they do their work well,
they are free to belong to a dozen labor organ-
izations or to none. It is none of my business;
I shall go on filling the places as fast as I can.
For you boys, I advise you to come back quick,
while there are any jobs left.
And how about Ransom, and OBrien,
and Schreiner, and me? said Nicker.
All of you, Mr. Nicker, will have to go
somewhere else than here.
We 11 see about that, Mr. Thorne. If this
is going to be a scab shop, you 11 find it is nt
easy running it; and these men that have taken
the bread out of our childrens mouths, let
them look out for themselves!
The deputation went away, keeping a high
crest, but inwardly disheartened by Thornes
composure. Tom Hollin, to this day, maintains
that whatever their anger and disappointment,
they would not have gone beyond petty in-
timidations with the new men, but for Nicker;
to him Tom always charged the lamentable
bloodshed that followed. Thorne gave warn-
ing that, at all hazards, he would protect his
men. He kept his word; the most turbulent
week that the little Western city had ever
known ended in a frantic riot, with utter rout to
the strikers, a score of broken heads and limbs,
a policeman stabbed, and one poor lad struck
so heavily that he could never wring his moth-
ers heart again. Poor Patsy was the only son
of a widow, the best-hearted fellow in the
world when sober. He belonged to Mikes
society. Mike himself helped carry him home,
and came away crying.
Squalid, needless, futile tragedy that it was,
it had more needless, more tragical possibilities
in its wake. It is not an easy thing to propose
assassination to American workingmen, even
to young anarchists; but when, that night,
Nicker rose in the garret that served his society
for a council-chamber, and glanced from one
bruised and lowering face to another, he recog-
nized the image of his own passions.
With hardly a dissenting voice, Arthur van
Rensselaer Thorne, superintendent of the Ems-
dale Agricultural Implement Company, was
tried by this modern Fehmgericht, for murder,
convicted, and condemned to death. The ex-
ecution of the sentence was to be deferred for
two weeks, lest suspicion should be turned in
the real quarter; for the same reason the strike
was declared off. There only remained to
settfe who should be the executioner, and
Michael Hollin drew the black lot. This it was
that happened to him on his nineteenth birth-
day. He held out the palm of his hand, and
they all could see it; very likely not a man
there but drew a breath of relief.
I am ready, said Mike in an even voice.
Nicker, watching the lad keenly, nodded once
or twice; there were certain dusky labyrinths in
his memory where he did not often care to
rummage; perhaps they held faces with a like
sinister radiance to that shining through Mikes
freckles. He 11 do, decided the socialist.
Nevertheless, he made him a sign to wait
after the others had gone, having it in mind
to hearten him up a bit; which he accom-
plished by kicking aside the huddle of chairs
and pushing Mike past the eddies of stale
tobacco smoke and dust from shuffling feet, un-
til they stood under the full glare of the gas-
jets, and then saying, in his most impressive
chest-tones, Remember our laws. If Thorne
does nt die,you will! Think of that when you
weaken.
I aint going to weaken, said Mike.
Well, I believe you, said Nicker, heartily.
The social revolution would come quicker if
there were more like you. Say, have you got
any change about you? Let s go take a
drink:
I guess I dont care for a drink, said
Mike; here s a quarter, though, you re wel-
come to. It s all I got.
The exhilaration that Mike experienced
when the great man first condescended to bor-
row small sums had been dulled by repetition
of late; and his cynical levity jarred on the
boys strained mood. He had nt ought to
drink /o-nigk/~ thus for a daring second he
ventiYred to criticize his chief, it aint no
drinking business he s got us into.
There was a relief when he could bid Nicker
good night (every detail having been settled),
and was free to go his own way. Mikes home
was on the hills, and his custom was to ride
up the long street on the electric cars; but to-
night he did not hail the flashing thing that
roared past him, spattering blue and green
fire off the rails.
Aint it like the devil? occurred to Mike.
It aint near so much like the devil, really,
though, as them saloons he stood opposite
one, at the moment, able to see Nickers square
shoulders and the back of the hand with which
he wiped his black mustache, while he spent
Mikes quarter I guess I wont drink any
more.
How devious and amazing are the ways of
that strong spirit which, Christian or pagan,
we may well call the Holy Ghost. Here is a 72 THE ROWDY
young ruffian, whose life has been for years
as evil as his wages would allow, who now is
pledged to commit an atrocious crime; yet
the weight of this very crime on his soul is
crushing out his trivial vices. He, the idle,
dissolute rowdy about to become an assassin,
is nearer salvation than he ever was in his ig-
noble life. For the first time poor Mike tried
to understand the meaning of duty and devo-
tion. In some indistinct fashion the cruel deed
that he was to do seemed to him a sacrificial
act, and himself a priest of justice. He was no
longer simply Mike Hollin, he was the repre-
sentative of the avengers of the poor, who dealt
with the tremendous issues of life and death.
He was awed. I guess I 11 behave as well s
I know how, said Mike.
He had mounted the hill, where lights were
still shining from upper stories, behind dainty
curtains; and now he turned into a side
street. The houses grew smaller; and gradu-
ally the red slipped out of the windows until
there was no light visible except in one house,
a little yellow cottage on the slope of a hill.
There was a garden about the house with an
old-fashioned garnishment of peonies and hol-
lyhocks; the latter sprung so close to the
walls and the bright window that the stalks
were not only drawn but faintly tinted, the
pink splashes showing amid the green.
Mike knew why that single window wa~
bright while all the homes around were sound-
less and dark. He looked at it as he whis-
pered: Patsy, do you hear? I m glad it s
me will do it. Rest easy, Patsy, boy; we 11
pay him up! We 11 revenge you! Then he
recoiled and hurried away, for he had seen
a shape cross the translucent white screena
little, bent womans shape, a knitted shawl
drawn over the gray head. She aint much
bigger n ma, thought Mike, swallowing at a
lump in his throat. Again he could hear the
little, wrinkled creatures wail above her son.
Never but the one cry over and over, Oh, he
was always such a good boy to me!
Its more n ma could rightly say for me,
said Mike to himself; but she would, though;
you bet she would! Poor ma, I aint done
right by her, and that s a fact. I 11 fill the
wood-boxes to-morrow, by .
The Hollins lived in a Mississippi town, not
yet so old that the high bluffs have been cleft
in any rectangular order; there remain pic-
turesque ravines between streets, and hills tied
together by slight wooden bridges that echo
hollowly to the tread, and shady slopes with
foot-paths under the bur-oaks. Such a bridge
Mike crossed, and rested his elbows on the
railing just where the string-course sags on
its crooked piles. Although an electric lamp
swings from its toxver above the further bank,
like a luminous porcupine, radiating fuzzy
needles of light on the first half of the bridge,
the shadow of the bank blocks off the last span.
It is very dark. Sometimes the water stag-
nates in the hollow underneath, and the frogs
croak. Always it is a lonesome, uncanny spot,
past which belated children scamper on win-
ter evenings. Mike laid his eyes on the bright
path. Some nighta night not so far away
he must stand in the selfsame place, peering
out of the dusk as he peered now, waiting,
watching, until a light figure should step on
the planks with an elastic footfall that Mike
knew, should traverse the little portion of the
road in the lamplight, and so pass into the
darkness and the jaws of death!
Everything was cunningly planned. Nicker
had fitted in each detail, down to the alibi ready
next day for Mike. There would be the revels
at half a dozen saloons, three trusty comrades
of the Fehmgericht to bear witness to the hours
(omitting only one), a simulated drunkenness
by Mike, and, finally, the bearing of him
home, in the guise of a sodden and helpless
wreck, to be put to bed by his mother.
Oh, you dont need to be afraid, Mike,
Nicker had chuckled, half an hour ago;
we 11 see you through. I know the ropes.
I aint afraid, said Mike. Nor was he
afraid now; but his nerves thrilled as a violin-
string will vibrate to a strong chord. He
glanced from the light that was shining on
Patsy OConnors winding-sheet to a light
burning across the ravine where his mother
waited for him, and he thought, I wonder
has he any folks. Then he set his face home-
ward, knitting his brows. All the way he could
see the light.
His father flung the door open before Mikes
thumb was off the gate latch.
Mike saw the room inside: the new brass
lamp glowing on the table; the short waves of
his mothers~black hair; the lines in her worn,
little face painted in broad strokes by the light;
and the gay rags, tumbled on her white apron,
for the mat that she was knitting to lie in
front of Mikes bed. She looked up, and her
lips trembled while she smiled.
You re late, Mike. His father speaks
sharply.
Yes, sir, says Mike, with an extraordinary
meekness, to-night he has no more heart to
squabble than he has had to carouse, there
was a meeting, and the strike s declared off.
I came right home after the meeting. I aint
been drinking, pa.
Had any money left to drink on? grunts
old Tom. Um m m! the grunt,
this time, that of the justified seer, as Mike
shakes his head, looking foolish I thought
as much. Well, go into the kitchen and git73
THE ROWDY.
your supper; your ma would save it for you.
I told her like s not you was killed. Got
hurted at all, hey?
No, pa.
To hear Hollins snarl, one would infer that
he was rather disappointed at Mikes escape,
whole and clean of limb the fact being that
young Tom and he had scoured the town for
news; and since he had come home (on as-
surance from a friendly policeman that his boy
vas safe), he had been pacing the floor, pour-
ing out his anxieties by jerks, for his wife to
~ontradict.
And did nt I tell you he would nt be
t? shrilly chimed in Mrs. Hollin, among
wh ;e virtues magnanimity will not be reck-
one at the last day. And, Mike, dont you
mint a word he says, or Tom, neither, for
V L.XLV.IQ
he s glad enough youre not laying longside
Patsy Oconnor; and so s Tom. And Clara
was crying, she was so scared about you;
but I fried you some liver and apples, and
there s coffee if it aint all sizzled away; I
guessed you d like a hot supper better n me
cryin
Mike astonished his parents no more than
himself by obeying a unaccountable im-
pulse to kiss his mother. I wisht I d never
made you cry, ma, he growled, and plunged
into the kitchen.
Well! said Thomas Hollin.
The mother wiped the tears out of her eyes;
but she called after Mike, in her natural high
key: Say, Mike, little Terry came round with
Clara, and he was so worked up he jest
would nt go home; said he would stay and
THE DEPUTATION CALLING ON THO NE. 74 THE ROUDY
sleep with Uncle Mike. I let him, cause I chaff of his mates in the shop, or in beer
knew you would nt mind. and dirty packs of cards, out of hours. He
No; Im glad, answered Mike, his voice took to spending his evenings home. He was
deeper than usual. civil to his father and to young Tom. I d
Terry was the crippled seven-year-old boy like em to have something kind o pleasanter
of his sister Clara, who had married the grocer bout me to remember than jest always hay-
at the corner; and of all the four grandchildren ing to keep the coffee on the back of the
he was the one that Mike petted most. Mrs. stove for me, thought Mike.
Hollin, unknown to any mortal, had her ap- Old Tom viewed his sons changed ways
palling seasons of vision with regard to Mike. with a mixture of bewilderment and secret
His father was mistaken when he judged her thankfulness; it was too soon to approve; but
to be blind; she knew more about Mikes vices he ceased to sneer or grumble, preserving
than did he. But in her worst discouragement a decent silence, filled with tobacco-smoke.
she would be comforted if she saw Mike with Young Tom was openly encouraged. Mike s
Terry. He s got a good heart, that boy, or been brought up standing by Patsy OCon-
he never could love a child so Lord, do nors death, that s what it is, said Tom.
save him yet! Thus Annie Hollin used to He s trying to think it out; and one good
prayfor she did pray, and fervently, although thing, he s broken with the Nicker gang.
only on great occasions. I aint one to be Say, Elly, we must ask Mike to the house,
bothering the Lord every time my bread dont sometimes, and lend him books. And I dont
rise, said Annie. No, I help myself long s believe it 11 break me to hire a two-horse
I Can; and when I cant, I ask help. Its the carriage next Sunday, and all of us go riding,
way I d be done by, and it s the way pa and ma, and you n me and Arthur, and
I do! Mike.
The day must have been a hard one for her Even Claras husband, hitherto the gloomi-
in spite of her bravado, since, after Tom slept, est of Mikes critics, had felt the contagion of
she stole to the window and kneeled there a long the family hopefulness, and displayed his good
time, sobbing and praying. She might have will in a package of Durham tobacco and an
judged her prayers answered could she have invitation to a revival meeting, enlivened by
looked into Mikes room, and seen Mikes face. stereopticon views of the Holy Land. Mike
pressed against the curly yellow head, with that thanked him, smoked the tobacco, and went
better and softer look that Terry often saw. to see the pictures. What would the staid dea-
But surely she would have known a new fore- cons in the pew behind him have thought,
boding had she tarried until the child roused could they have looked into his brain and
himself to murmur sleepily, Give Uncle seen the pictures there! Steadily, these feign-
Mike a kiss and a hug and a pat all his ings of his fancy grew more terrible, more
little store of sweets cause the cops did nt absorbing. He got no comfort from his com-
kill you! and heard Mike say huskily, You rades. Nicker made jokes about murder when
wont quit liking Uncle Mike, whatever they in good humor, or ferocious threats when an-
say, will you, little Terry? gry. The older comrades were shy of the sub-
The following morning (the day of the ject. They re scared, the cowards! thought
week was XVednesday) Mike applied at the Mike. The younger comrades had a callous
shops for work. Before he started he filled cheerfulness that exasperated him. He couldnt
the kitchen wood-box. Every morning he help thinking that they would be less cheerful
filled it. He pumped water unasked. The were their own necks in danger, instead of his.
next pay-day he bought his mother probably When was it that a new suspicion joined the
the gaudiest and ugliest photograph frame to tumult of his thoughts? They changed; in-
be gotten in the town for money. He put a sidiously, imperceptibly a doubt, not of the
photograph of Terry in it. righteousness of the cause, not of the justice
Oh, deane me, sighed Annie Hollin, that of punishing the oppressors, but a doubt of the
boy must a got something on his mind; he exact measure of guilt of this special oppressor,
aint natural at all. Arthur Thorne, unarmed his purpose. Whether
Well, I hope he 11 stay unnatural, then, it was that seeing Thorne daily, discovering, /
said her husband, easily. He aint worked so as a good workman is never slow to discover,
well or kept so steady since I ye knowed him. that he understood the business down to the
Mike, in fact, was working hard. The in- ground, and, discovering, too, that he was
structions given him were to be industrious quick to commend, Mike had felt the pet
and seem content. To xvork was a relief in sonal charm that made his brother the you~r~
the ferment of his mind, to seem content was fellows devoted adherent; whether it was tiha~t
a different matter. Possessed still by a som- the talk of the shop, which had now ye :ed
ber enthusiasm, he took no pleasure in the over to Thornes side, as to a man with ~znd ThtS ROWDY 75
that would stick to them that stuck to him,
unconsciously affected him; whether he was
influenced by the example of the principal
Knights of Labor among the workmen, men
not the least like Nicker, either in habit or
principle, and giving a modified support to
Thorne as apparently meaning well ; in
fine, whether any or all of these causes moved
him to compassion for Thorne as a man too
rashly doomed, moved he was, and deeply.
lie tried to brace up his nerves by a visit to
Patsys mother, whom he had not seen for a
week, not since he helped carry Patsys coffin
to his grave.
She met his sympathy with a strange an-
swer. Is it Mr. Thorne you d be imputin
it to, Mike Hollin ? she cried. He had no-
thing to do with it at all, except the goodness
of him paying for the fine carriages at the
funeral. He did that, God bless him! I know
well the man that s my poor boys murderer,
and ye mind it, Michael Hollin!
Oh,~ said Mike, vaguely, was it Officer
Reilly?
No, it was not, Michael Hollin. Who hit
him I know not, nor do I want to know. They
was all in a heap, and ivery man a-striking for
his own headI might be blaming unjustly
an I did know, so I pray God keep it from
me! No; the wan Almighty God blames for
that day, an the blood on it, aint the craturs
that was hitting, maybe by mistake; it s the
man that druv them poor boys wild an bad
with his wicked lies.
And him, Mrs. OConnor?
Ye know well that it s Bill Nicker I mean,
Michael Hollin.
Of course she was raving in her grieg but
he could not tell her so; and her words re-
curred to him uncomfortably all the way
down-town.
It was a half-holiday at the works, owing to
some repairs, and Mike had the afternoon
to himself. He thought that he would go
to Terrys school in time to walk home with
Terry. There was a reason for the heavy sick-
ness of heart that made him crave the little
fellows companionship; time had not stood
still for his struggles, and to-morrow was the
night. Sunk in darker and darker meditation,
he walked down the shady street toward the
great brick building that is the Eighth Dis-
trict school. And so mutinous was the cast
of his thoughts, that he gave a guilty start
when he observed, a little in advance, Nicker
himself walking with the gigantic blacksmith.
Of late the blacksmith, who was a member
of the society, had been restive under dis-
cipline, grumbling about Thornes sentence;
and indeed, Mike had noticed that while the
hatred of Thorne had steadily grown more
virulent and reckless in the men outside, those
who like Nicker were refused any place in the
shops, the men at work were becoming listless
and uneasy. Some of em would like to back
out, said Mike, scowling. After to-morrow,
it will be too late to back out. He quickened
his pace a little, as one will when Black Care
strikes the spursin,andhe was onlythebreadth
of the street, obliquely, from the school-house,
near enough to see the heads, white and yel-
low and brown, filing behind the windows, in
the formal march to the doors; he could dis-
tinguish Terrys yellow curls, see the doors
swing apart, the lower-room children pouring
out into the street; when, quite without warn-
ing, all the people on the sidewalk began to
run with loud screams. The horrid cry arose:
Mad dog! mad dog! Mike turned whence
the noise mostly came, to behold an ugly sight.
Down the side street, headed directly toward the
crowd of children, ran the animal, one of those
white, bow-legged, wrinkle-jawed, vicious-eyed
bull-dogs, to which in their best estate one in-
stinctively gives the larger half of the walk, at
this moment a creature out of a nightmare,
with his ghastly mouth and the blind, crouch-
ing fury of his gait; and behind him raced
fast and faster the single pursuer, a young man
on a bicycle. He could see the children; in
his set face and straining muscles was as fierce
an eagerness as that hurling the brute. This
picture flashed into Mikes consciousness be-
fore he wrenched a loose brick from the pave-
ment and ran straight into the dogs path.
He passed Nicker and the blacksmith, who
had leaped a fence, and were hunting for wea-
pons on the safe side. One chance in a thou-
sand that he might hit the dog before he should
reach the children! If not Mike straight-
ened himself and shut his teeth hard; the brick
was poised in his right hand, he opened his
pocket-knife with bis teeth and his left hand.
They were aoming! A woman screamed as the
rider gained. He was level with the beast, he
swung his body over; nobody quite saw how
it was done, but the dog was snatched up and
held out at arms-length by the collar, while
the wheels whirled on.
Hold him! screamed Mike. Hold him!
I kin hit him! The man on the wheels did
hold the dog, held him far out, struggling
savagely, a horrible mark. Mike threw his
brick so truly, that the writhing, foaming mass
collapsed into a string of limp legs and a
bloody head, which the rider flung on the
ground, just before he sprang down himself.
They saw a quick movement of one arm;
there was a flash and a loud report.
Arthur Thorne replaced his revolver.
Thank you, said he, with a nod at Mike;
I really dont think he needed that last shot, 76 THE ROWDY
but it was better to make safe. You throw t was nt me killed the dog, ma, said Mike,
well, Hollin. who, indeed, was too harried by conflicting
Mike bad drawn near enough to be one of emotions to realize the splendor of his own
the crowd staring at the gory lump; a second conduct.
earlier there were only Thorne, the dog, and Yes t was, too, sobbed Mrs. Hollin; you
he, but now at least twenty men bustled up hit him with the brickbat.
valorously with improvised weapons, and one But I never could have got nigh enough
adventurous matron swung a tea-kettle. The in time to slug him, Mike cried very earnestly.
blacksmith had wrenched off a pump-handle. Mr. Thorne he caught him up like light-
Among them no one would have singled out ningtell ye, ma, t was somethin to see!
Mike standing with shoulders relaxed, hands in Well, yes, he was brave, too, admitted
his pockets, and mouth agape, for an actor in Mrs. Hollin.
the scene. His head swam. A dizzy admira- I say ye both done well, pronounced the
tion for Thornes feat mingled with something father, and I am going out this minute to
that suffocated him, as he saw Terry limping git some beer to drink Mikes health.
through the crowd, and heard the familiar little
voice calling:
Please let me get to my Uncle Mike. Did
you kill him, Uncle Mike? Let me look. He
cant bite nobody now, can he?
Mike lifted the child up in his arms, and hid
his face against Terrys jacket.
You re a brave boy, cried the woman,
sobbing.
No, I aint, said Mike bruskly; there
was all the children. Anyhow, Mr. Thorne
done it. I must take this boy home. So he
got away, got Terry home, almost staggered
home himself.
His father smoked his pipe on the piazza
steps; indoors his mother was setting the ta-
ble, both waiting for Mike, with excited faces,
for a neighbor had told them the story. Mrs.
Hollin ran out and fell on Mikes neck. But
Mike could hardly remember the time when
his father had praised him before; and yet so
confused and troubled was his mind, that he
was only aware of a new kind of pang. Never-
theless, being occupied with the catastrophe
and their own vivid emotions, none of the fam-
ily except his mother noticed anything odd in
his demeanor. Clara came before supper was
ended, to relate the story with tears; and Claras
husband choked when he thanked Mike. I
know little Terry never could have got out of
the way, said he. Tom came, too, with his
wife, who, having been a school-teacher and
wearing a gold watch, was considered to hold
herself rather above the family; and Elly ac-
tually kissed Mike, calling him, You splendid
fellow! while Tom held him out by both el-
bows, crying, Let s look at the young feller
Mr. Thorne says is the bravest man he knows.
ENGRAVED BY C. STArE.
MIKE AND TERRY, THE ROWDY 77
Oh, you get out! stammered the wretched
Mike, feeling ready to cry. And Bill Nicker,
says Tom, gleefully, bless you, Bill was there,
but he was nt there long; he got over a fence
like greased lightning, and Johnny Mahin was
with him; he got over, too, and pulled the
handle off the Lowdersspump,and Lowder was
round swearing he 11 make him mend it! The
joke is, it s cast-iron, and he broke it off short.
A feller s strong s thai ought nt to be afraid
of a pup, says Lowder. Bill Nicker got Mrs.
Lowders carving-knife, and was round mighty
brave after the dog was dead.
Is he gone to work yet? asked old Tom,
who was puffing very comfortably on the step.
No; says he s waiting for the new factory
to start up over the river. Says he 11 get higher
wages there.
Bill Nicker, said old Tom, meditatively,
he tries every way on earth to get higher
wages, cept doing better work.
To all this and more Mike listened. He said
nothing. He felt no desire to defend Nicker.
His moral world was in ruins. Nicker had
shown the white feather, and Thorne had saved
Terry.
But only his mother watched him anxiously,
sitting mute and dismal amid the chatter; only
his mother stole to his door during the night
and heard his sobs. In the morning she made
a pretext of some pie for his dinner to get him
off to her little pantry. You walk on, Tom,
said she; he 11 ketch up!
All right, called old Tom, cheerfully,he
was in high good humor with Mike, the world,
and himself, give the lad a good dinner, he
deserves it.
She folded a napkin neatly about the turn-
over, and placed it in his pail. Her hands
trembled. He could see her out of the corners
of his eyes; he felt both those trembling hands
laid on his shoulders; and he wriggled, blink-
ing his swollen eyelids in the sunlight.
Micky, said his mother, you dont need
to wink, I know you been crying. You been
wretched s could be going on two weeks.
He looked at her with a quivering mouth that
would nt smile for all his efforts. Dont you
mind, Micky, when you was a boy, and you d
been bad or anything had gone wrong, how
you d come round after a while and tell all
to mother? And then you d feel all right!
Micky dear, cant you tell it all to mother
now? She was afraid that he would be angry,
but he was not angry.
I wish I could, ma, he said, but I cant.
Micky, I know it s that society. Mrs.
OConnor told me she s sure theyre after some
mischief. Two or three of the boys was at her
house; and you know boys: they cant no more
help leaking out what s in their minds than a
dish-pan with a hole in it; and they was brag-
ging to her how Thorne would be sorry some
day. Micky, dont go to feeling bad. Say, if
I tell the police on em, and have em took up,
will anything come out to hurt you?
She was startled at his face, xvhich turned a
dark red, while he gripped her arms so hard
that it hurt her. Mother, he groaned, if
you do that, by I 11 cut my throat!
Oh, then, I wont, Micky. Then I wont
indeed, Micky. But, Micky, I d hate I d
hate for any harm to come to Mr. Thorne, after
Terry, you know, and him godfather to Toms
boy.
There 11 no harm come to Mr. Thorne,
mother; I promise you that. He spoke very
steadily, and, after a long look at her, he
kissed her. It was so unlike Mike, and she was
so oppressed, so fluttered, that she had no more
strength to detain him. All she could do was
miserably to watch him running through the
little garden, and to fall on her knees by the
flour-barrel. But in an instant she was on her
feet. I dunno as I need to pray, after all,
cried she. She intended no irreverence; she
only meant that her own resources were not yet
exhausted; unless they were exhausted, to her
queer conscience prayer was unwarrantable
beggary. Rapidly she made herself ready for
the~ street, and ran over to Mrs. OConnors.
Mike was a hero at the shops that day. The
men thought that he seemed embarrassed by
their praises; but that was natural, and to be
commended in a youngster. John, the black-
smith, himself the butt ofmany jocose references
to pump-handles, approached him at noon.
Mike sat on the shaidy side of the car-shed look-
ing at the river. John said something compli-
mentary about the dog; then he kicked at the
bits of slag on the black ground. Say, you
aint going on with it, are ye? said he in an
undertone.
No, said Mike.
I wont let anybody hurt you. You can buy
a revolver; I 11 lend you the money. And
I 11 go home with you every night.
Oh, that s all right, said Mike. The big
man glanced half wistfully at the insignificant
bare arms folded on Mikes knee and at the
freckled, pale face; but he was a man of few
words, so he merely said, I guess so, and
went his ways.
Id need more n him to stand them off ~
thought Mike, who had lost some of his belief
in the Fehmgerichts infallibility, but not a whit
of confidence in its power. I dont blame the
boys, neither, he would have answered, had
there been any one to argue with him. I m
a traitor. But I cant help it.
When the whistle blew for closing, Mike
slipped away, and went to a toy-shop. There 78 THE ROWDY
he bought some envelops and paper and a toy
pistol. He was very particular that the pistol
should be a safe one, with a rubber ball. Hay-
ing made his purchases, he took the street-car
to his sister Claras. Claras mother-in-law, the
only person at home, wondered a little over
his evident disappointment when he found
her there alone: he gave her the pistol for
Terry. From Claras house, instead of going
home, although it was now past six oclock, he
went down the hill to the river bridge.
In sunny weather there are so many people
loitering about the approaches to the bridge,
on the stone wall above the river bank, or on the
wharves of the bath-house and the boat-bouses,
that one more quiet figure attracts no atten-
tion, even should it be that of a young working-
man who chooses to write his letters with a lead-
pencil, and on his knee. Who would divine
anything tragical concerning a round-shoul-
dered young fellow that wrote with his tongue
between his teeth, or who would imagine, when,
having written and sealed his letter (the en-
velop was addressed to A. V. Thorne, Esq.),
he put both hands into his pockets and stared
at the opal water and the great gold ball hung
above it, that here was a bewildered and tor-
mented soul, so tormented, so bewildered as to
see but one dark passage of escape? I 11 post
it, and he 11 get it to-morrow, said Mike. I
had to give him a bit of a caution, and I aint
told on anybody. I wisht I could get a word
to ma; but she wont take it so hard,
thinking it s accidental. All his misspent life
seemed drifting past him on the softly flaming,
glowing water: if he were to have the chance
again, maybe he would n~t be such a fool.
Terrys laugh sounded in the swash of the wa-
ters, his mothers voice, his fathers gruff tones,
and Nickers clear, rich intonations. He heard
Nicker speak quite distinctly, If Thorne dont
die, you wi/i! No; there was no other way
out, but poor mother!
For the lands sake, Micky, what are you
looking at? said his mother. Ive been a-
waving and a-waving to you, to get you to look
round.
She stood before him in the flesh, wearing
her best bonnet, and her black silk gown given
her by Tom, sacred to high feasts, and smiling
as if well pleased. And why aint you walking
home, Micky Hollin? she said, slipping her
hand into his arm. Do you know Elly s been
and got a grand supper for you, for a surprise,
and all of us is coming, and Mr. Thorne, too?
Itll be greatdoings, and I ye been hunting the
town over for you. You ye got bare time to
put on your Sunday coat; I got the things all
laid out on the bed.
All right, ma, said Mike, forcing him-
self to smile. I 11 just run down to the bath-
house for a plunge to clean up, and ride up in
the street-car. You go on to Ellys.
The tubs at home 11 do you, Mike, she
answered, holding tightly to his arm. Wait;
I got a letter Mr. Nicker gave me to be sure to
give you. I guess it s about his going away,
for I saw him getting on the cars.
Now she released his arm. He read the note
that she gave him, while the sky, and the street,
and the lighted water, and her face, all reeled
about him as about a man in an earthquake:
Friend Mike: All is discovered. I m off to
look for work. For Gods sake, do nothing in
the matter! Will write.
When Mike looked up, Mrs. Hollin was
laughing hysterically.
Mother, he cried, whathave you done?
I aint done nothing, Micky dear. I aint
let on a word to the cops. But I accidental like
met Mr. Nicker to-day, and says I: Excuse
me, Mr. Nicker, was there a fire or a fight down
your way, for I seen three policemen there
this morning? says Ibut I was lying, you
know, God forgive me! I wish you d seen the
man; he was hopping round like a hen with its
head cut oW trying all the while not to appear
strange at all. But he went off and he had nt
.got well round the corner before he runs up on
Mrs. OConnor, who said very stiff (she aint on
no too good terms with him), Mr. Nicker,
there was a little boy handed me this, begging me
to hand it to you. I aint easy in my conscience
bout it, but for old times sake, here t is. And
you see, Micky, it was jest more lies, a letter
telling him the police was on to everything, and
for him to warn M. H .
Ma, you wrote it! gasped Mike.
Of course I wrote it, Micky. Do you ex-
pect poor Mrs. OConnor, who can hardly sign
her name, to write a document like that? I
wrote it. And the man took it all for law and
gospel, like I knew he would, and run home
quick for his gripsack. I had to laugh to see
him rolling his eyes round down at the depot,
trying to look out of the back of his head if
he could see a policeman, he was so scairt.
But, the Lord be praised, we re rid of him, for
good! So, Micky, I shant ask no questions
and you dont need to tell me no lies; but
dont never have no such awful things happen
to you that your mother has got to be a liar
for you, or think of taking baths in the river;
and do try and be a good boy and please your
father.
Fore God I will, ma, said Mike, out of
a full heart.
Octave Tizanet.ROAD-COACHING
~WENTY-FJVE years ago the
youth of America took no inter-
est whatever in athletics. Our
national game of base-ball was
hardly known. What ~hanges
have been wrought in one short
quarter of a century in the taste for athletic
sports may be seen by glancing at the numer-
ous colleges throughout the country, where
the maxim of Mens sana in corpore sano
has a practical influence it never had before.
Some eighteen years ago road-coaching was
introduced into America by Colonel Delancey
Kane, Colonel Jay, and others, and consider-
able interest in it has been keptup ever since,
though confined to a small set; but the gen-
eral public at that time was not prepared to sec-
~nd their efforts with much enthusiasm, looking
pon it rather as a pose than as a manly sport
~u~ring all the nerve, energy, and powers
organization that can be developed by an
letic pastime.
~his period has happily passed. The pub-
UP
TO DATE.
lic to-day take such a lively interest in all mat-
ters appertaining to road-coaching that a few
notes which I have been able to gather from
the best authorities on the subject may not be
unwelcome at the present time. For conven-
ience I shall divide the subject into the follow-
ing heads: The Road; The Horses; The
Pace; The Coach; The Horse-keepers; The
Stables; The Driving; A Practical Illustration:
The Record Trip from Paris to Trouville.
THE ROAD.
MACADAM roads made with volcanic rock
carry a coach better than roads macadamized
with sedimentary rock. This sedimentary rock
disintegrates and becomes woolly in wet
weather, whereas granite sheds the water much
better. On roads that have high crowns and are
narrow, such as can be found between Cook-
field and Friars Oak in England, it is extremely
difficult to make good time with a heavily laden
coach, because when you pull out to pass a
79
ARRIVAL AT MANTES
the pictures with this article illustrate the trip fruin Paris to Tess ille, descrihed on page t~ EDITOR.

T. Suffern TailerTailer, T. SuffernRoad-Coaching Up To Date79-86

ROAD-COACHING
~WENTY-FJVE years ago the
youth of America took no inter-
est whatever in athletics. Our
national game of base-ball was
hardly known. What ~hanges
have been wrought in one short
quarter of a century in the taste for athletic
sports may be seen by glancing at the numer-
ous colleges throughout the country, where
the maxim of Mens sana in corpore sano
has a practical influence it never had before.
Some eighteen years ago road-coaching was
introduced into America by Colonel Delancey
Kane, Colonel Jay, and others, and consider-
able interest in it has been keptup ever since,
though confined to a small set; but the gen-
eral public at that time was not prepared to sec-
~nd their efforts with much enthusiasm, looking
pon it rather as a pose than as a manly sport
~u~ring all the nerve, energy, and powers
organization that can be developed by an
letic pastime.
~his period has happily passed. The pub-
UP
TO DATE.
lic to-day take such a lively interest in all mat-
ters appertaining to road-coaching that a few
notes which I have been able to gather from
the best authorities on the subject may not be
unwelcome at the present time. For conven-
ience I shall divide the subject into the follow-
ing heads: The Road; The Horses; The
Pace; The Coach; The Horse-keepers; The
Stables; The Driving; A Practical Illustration:
The Record Trip from Paris to Trouville.
THE ROAD.
MACADAM roads made with volcanic rock
carry a coach better than roads macadamized
with sedimentary rock. This sedimentary rock
disintegrates and becomes woolly in wet
weather, whereas granite sheds the water much
better. On roads that have high crowns and are
narrow, such as can be found between Cook-
field and Friars Oak in England, it is extremely
difficult to make good time with a heavily laden
coach, because when you pull out to pass a
79
ARRIVAL AT MANTES
the pictures with this article illustrate the trip fruin Paris to Tess ille, descrihed on page t~ EDITOR. 8o ROAD-COA CLUNG UP TO BA TE.
vehicle your coach no longer runs on a level,
and the wheels which are below the crown hind
and drag heavily. Thebestroadis made of gran-
ite macadam, slightly undulating, and with me-
dium crown. Over such a road horses can go
at a great pace without fatigue. Such a piece
of road exists between Reigate and Crawley,
and that distance has been accomplished daily
for six months with the same horses, going at
the rate of a mile in three minutes (distance
nine miles and one half), as was done by Mr.
W. G. Tiffany in 1873, when he horsed
and owned the Brighton coach. Slightly un-
dulating ground is the easiest for horses, as
it calls for different muscular action in turn
as they go up and down bill. Any one can
prove this by merely running over the above
kind of ground, when he will find that in go-
mb down hill he will rest his lungs from the
strain put upon them by rising ground, and
will alternately rest different sets of muscles
and regain his breath.
Hence it is a great mistake to endeavor to
run teams up a long hill, especially if any of
them are a bit gone in the wind. Sandy
roads, even if they are not hilly, are most dis-
tressing to horses, as they have no spring. The
more spring there is the better it enables the
horses to keep the vehicle moving; whereas,
when the road is deep, it is a dead pull and
very disheartening.
THE HORSES.
LET us now consider the class of horses most
suitable for road work. It will be noticed that
in most coaches running out of London, where
the pace is necessarily slow, owing to the
crowded traffic and the desire to sell the horses
to an advantage at the end of the season, a
coarse-bred, short-necked. class of horse has
gradually crept in from the omnibus to the
coach. To each portion of the road the horses
should be adapted. If the ground require it
may be well enough to use a coarse horse that
can exert his utmost strength for a consider-
able time, providing the pace is slow; but it
must be borne in mind that coarse horses ought
never to be galloped. No greater mistake can
be made than that of outpacing your stock.
If a horse is worked within his pace he will
last for years; if outpaced he will go to pieces
in a few weeks.
If it is considered desirable to have a gal-
loping stage to your coach, remember to have
small horses, or at least horses with a great
deal of blood. They alone can stand the ex-
citement and the wear and tear of a fast pace
On the whole, the most desirable class of hon
is a well-bred, well-proportioned animal of
dium size that can trot eleven miles an
without distressing himself. In a genera~
with regard to horsing a coach, it must
Lains).
A QUICIC CHANGE AT LA RIVI~RE THIBOUVILLE. ROAD-COACHLiVG UP ITO DATE. 8i
membered that it is most desirable to buy all for each person when nine or more were carried
your horses of a certain type, whatever that outside, while the duty xvas only threepence
may be. In this way you can transfer a horse when there were seven or less. In both cases
from one team to another; whereas, if you have the numher of inside passengers was limited to
a nondescript lot, of all sorts and qualities, they six. Coaches carried as many as sixteen out-
become very difficult to handle. A man should side, but only on short journeys. An example
never allow himself to buy a horse because it of the old London coach carrying sixteen on the
pleases his fancy as an individual, but should outside can be seen at the present day running
try to maintain as near a~ possible the same from Ballater to Balmoral, and very curious ye-
stamp of animal throughout. hides they are. I have counted twenty-five
In the old days the road was divided up into on one of them, but the pace never averages
certain stages, and menwere said to horse por- more than seven miles an hour. The true type
tions of the ground. The guard carried a time of the modern coach can be seen on the roads
bill, in order that the pace might be so regu- out of Paris and London at the present day.
lated that if time were lost in one portion of These carry eight passengers on the body, three
the journey he could prevent the coachman with the guard, and one on the box-seat be-
from taking it out of the horses on the next. At side the coachman. They are beautifully con-
the present day, however, the horses are gener- structed, and cannot be surpassed for traveling
ally run in common over the whole of the road; up to ten miles an hour, including changes;
hence the disappearance of the time bills. beyond that pace, however, a special vehicle,
The roads out of London to-day are traveled such as the old mail, is required.
very slowly for reasons mentioned above; but Now that road-coaching is on the increase
for a gentlemans coach to be smart, a credit in America, it is to be hoped that a judicious
to himself, and a pleasure to the passengers, and limited use of the horn may prevail. Con-
the pace should not be less than ten miles an tinual horn-blowing has become not only a
hour, including changes. nuisance to passengers, but an impertinence to
The objective point of the road should be a the public at large. The latter certainly have
place of beauty and interest, with a good cui- as much right to enjoy the road, if only with a
sine, and the road leading to it pretty and donkey, as the noisy swell with his four horses
smooth, as nothing is more disagreeable than and brass.
to be shaken up over a long stretch of cobble-
stones. To do ten miles an hour, play should HORSE-KEEPERS AND STABLING.
be made over every bit of road that is advan-
tageous. The coach should be taken as rapidly HORSE-KEEPERS are a subject of great tron-
as l)ossible over all falls of ground, in order that ble at the present day. It is difficult to find
the horses should have more time to contend men at reasonable wages who at the same time
with rising ground, and should be allowed thoroughly understand four-horse work. In
to run down hill at the accelerated speed it this respect old coachmen had a great advan-
would naturally acquire. The horses, thereby, tage over those of modern times. The present
are not fatigued by hauling at their pole-chains, horse-keepers are, as a rule, difficult to manage,
The coach, in fact, should be allowed to take to say nothing of their conceit, incapacity, and
itself down hill, and the horses should be kept love of strong liquor. It requires a thoroughly
out of its way. Especially is this the case with competent man to go over the road and keep
cripples, or horses with bad legs that must have these persons in order. This head servant does
their heads and be kept on their feet by the not by any means get the praise to which he is
whip, because the position of the ground bends entitled. He should be provided with a buggy;
their hocks and puts them in their bridles an extra horse should be kept at every stage, so
even with a loose rein. By this I mean that the that he can start any time, day or night, pick
horse is gathered, or in other words has his up his changes on the road, and see what the
hocks bent and his neck arched. Up hill, on horse-keepers are about. Moreover,he must be
the contrary, the team cannot be held too thoroughly familiar with the business of man-
tightly, and a judicious use of the whip, care- aging coach-horses. It is admitted that some
fully distributed, must keep them in their of the best stud-grooms, accustomed to hunt-
bridles the xvhole way up at a moderate and ers and ordinary carriage-horses, have signally
even pace. failed to accomplish this work. Not only is the
THE COACH. feeding an art in itself, but the stabling is also
peculiar. The coach-horse must have more air
I-N the old days it was an important matter and less clothing than any other horse that
to consider the number of passengers that rode works, and nothing is more pernicious to a
outside, as there was imposed by the Govern- highly excited coach-horse than to turn him
ment a duty of fourpence halfpenny per mile into a warm stable when he comes off the road.
VOL. XLV. ii.
A
1
A (I)
0
z
0
H~ z
0 ROAL)-CO~1CHIiVG (JR 1)0 DATE. 83
~lhe hours of feeding have necessarily to dif-
fer at each stage, owing to the various times at
which the horses commence their work, and
great care has to be exercised, especially in
warm, wet weather, to preserve their condition
and keep them free from sore shoulders and
galls.
Each horse should be numbered and be
known only by that number, a board being
kept at the door of each stable giving detailed
instructions to the horse-keepers. This precau-
tion will save the annoyance of oft-repeated
and time-losing mistakes.
THE DRIVING.
Ix regard to driving the road, it maybe said
in general that no hard and fast rules can be
laid down. Much latitude should be allowed to
the individual, and his performance should be
judged ofas a whole rather than by the crotchets
of theorists. Some say that the reins should
be buckled, others that the ends should hang
loose; some that the coachman should throw
the reins and whip down, others that he should
bring them down with him from the box. These
and other minor details form food for many
petty discussions, but are really not worth the
acrimony they have aroused. I would suggest
that town teams should have cruppers, a smart
set of harness with bearing-reins, and moder-
ately tight pole-chains to facilitate the steer-
ing of the coach, and that the team should be
driven at a moderate pace with horses well
collected; whereas with the country teams more
of a coaching style should be adopted, the crup-
pers, ornaments, and bearing-reins being dis-
pensed with.
A PRACTICAL ILLUSTRATION. THE RECORD
TRIP FROM PARIS TO TROUVILLE.
FROM i8oo to 1840 there were several classes
of mails running from the General Post Office
in London at St. Martins le Grand. The main
lines ran north, south, east, and west, each coach
carrying three passengers on the outside, and
going at the rate of i ~2 miles an hour. Sub-
sidiary mails made the necessary connections
in the country, running at about 9 miles an
hour, and carried six or eight passengers on
top. It is only with the former class that
we have to deal at present. We take for our
type the Devonport Quicksilver Mail,which was
considered the fastest out of London and was
timed at 12 miles an hour, including changes.
In the older days horses were not always of
the best description, a~d the few coachmen that
arc left from those times, such as Charley Ward,
lay great stress on this fact. Modern coachmen
have but little knowledge of these difficulties,
because they generally have well-broken horses
accustomed to their work, and good horse-
keepers.
In a trip from Paris to Trouville in July,
1892, an attempt was made to repeat as closely
as possible the conditions of the old mails as
well as to keep their time. The distance was
140 miles, portions of the road being level and
very good, the remainder extremely hilly. On
the day we drove, part of it was woolly from
rain, owing to the fact that this, like most
French roads, was macadamized with sedi-
mentary rock. The official time-table was as
follows:
JULY 12, 1892.
DOWN.
Arrival. Departure.
Paris Herald Office 6 A. M.
St. Germain 7.08.... 7.12
Vaux 7.55.... 7.58
Mantes . 8.57... 9
Bonniiwes 9.39.... 9.45
Pacy-sur-Eure 10.30.... 10.33
Evreux 11.29... .11.33
La Commanderie 12.28 P. M. 12.31 2P. M.
La Rivi~re Thihouville . . . . 1.24.. . . 1.26
Le Marche Neuf 2.06 2.12
Licurey 2.50 2.56
Bonneville 3.40 3.46
Pont lEv~que 4.182 . 4 21
Trouxille Town 4.40
Hotel Bellevue 4.50
140 miles in 10 hours ~o minutes.
The passengers were Eugene Higgins, W.
G. Tiffany (the noted whip), James Gordon
Bennett, of the New York Herald, and the
wrlter. Inside the mail were Mr. Hiekel, an
amateur photographer, to whom we are in-
debted for the accompanying illustrations;
Mr. Luque, of the Figaro Illustrd; the
builder of the mail, Mr. Guiet, and the sport-
ing editor of the Paris Herald. Mr. Hig-
gins drove during the first half of the journey,
the writer the second. Morris Howlett acted
as guard, and, in spite of his youth, was most
efficient.
There were thirteen changes; of these, three
had not been in four-horse harness before, and
the wheelers were very rein-shy. The horse-
keepers were so inefficient that we had to har-
ness many of our teams ourselves. Thus the
conditions claimed by the old coachmen were
fulfilled, and the difficulties of driving under
these circumstances were very great. In the
first place, some of the teams had never been
driven fast, as they were horses hired sepa-
rately from different dealers, accustomed to he
driven about Paris to vehicles, single or in
pairs, at the rate of 6 to 7 miles an hour. To
get them up to a pace of 14 miles an hour,
and to keep them there for a distance of 10 84 ROAD~COAGHfNx U!? TO DATA.
ALL ABOARD! AT TOR ROLVILLR CROSS-ROADS, NRAR RONRRVILLR.
miles, rendered them very excited and difficult
to drive. If a great deal of care had not been
used at the first part of each stage, they would
have become entirely incapacitated owing to
this sudden over-exertion. It requires much
judgment to enable untrained horses to accom-
plish the distance at this high rate of spee(l,
without either running away or falling down.
A team outpaced at the start would have been
absolutely useless before half io miles had b en
accomplished. When we tarted with a team
we drove slowly, say 7 miles an hour, feeling
the temper and quality of our horses. Then
when we came to a fall of ground we would urge
them until all but one were galloping, thus get-
ting the pace of the best trotter in the team
~is a guide, and his fastest trot would be the
pace for the rest of that stage. We had en-
gaged cockhorses for the hills, but found that
the time lost in putting them to and taking
them off was not counterbalanced by their
assistance.
It was mistake, we found, to have too
many relays on the road, for the time lost
while changing is not made up on short stages.
This was also the experience of Mr. J. mes
Gordon Bennett when he put his coach on the
road from Pau to Biarritz.
In a drive like this, the use of the whip
is of the greatest importance. People driving
their own teaThs in the park, even for years,
do not get the training a day like this offers.
For example, through the ignorance of the
horse-keeper the horses intended as wheelers,
coarse and sluggish, were once put as leaders,
whereas free little horses, which would have
made capital leaders, were put J wheel, ne-
cessitating a vigorous use of the whip on these
misplaced leaders over every yard of the
ground, while the wheelers had to be held.
In another case the wheelers were very rein-
shy, and continually pulled away from the pole.
This could be controlled only by a judicious
and energetic use of the whip, directed mainly
to the off-side ear of the off horse, and vice
versa. If we had not been able to administer
this correction this stage would never hive
been accomplished at 11. In this sort of worl
time will not permit of any change of bitting
and coupling. The coachman must keep his
horses for that stage just as they are, whether
he likes it or not; for it must be remembered
that time w~ sted in changing of bit and coup-
ling cannot be gathered up again, but is lost
forever.
As an il1ustr~ tion of the importance of what
has been previoisly stated in regard to the
feeding of co c~horses, it may be mentioned
that one of the leaders, which was apparently
perfectly sound horse, was unable to continue ROAD-COACHING UP TO DATE. 85
after three miles, and we were consequently
forced to leave him on the road, although the
next day he was perfectly well, and accom-
plished his journey in comfort. We learned
afterward that this horse had been fed too
late, and it was impossible for him to work at
a high rate of speed on a full stomach.
As in the case of a judicious jockey who finds,
when his horse bolts with him at the post, that
the best thing to do is to outpace him at
once and thus get hold of his head, so when
we found ourselves with four big Percherons,
heavy in the neck, and so lightly bitted that
the strongest man in the world could not have
stopped them suddenly, we whipped them into
a run, tbus outpacing them, so that after a few
miles they came back to our hand and were un-
der complete control.
In spite of the speed made during this jour-
ney, various horse-dealers in Paris certified
through the press that every horse used on the
trip was returned to them in an entirely satis-
factory condition.
This distance of 140 miles in io hours and
50 minutes gives an average of a mile in 4-~
minutes, being a little over i 2 miles an hour,
including changes; and these changes in many
cases, for reasons explained above, were unne-
cessarily long.
In Selbys famous drive to Brighton and
back, the changes were made on an average
within one minute, and as he changed fourteen
times we deduct 14 from 7 hours and 55 mm-
utes, leaving 7 hours 41 minutes for the ac-
complishment of the 104 miles.
We changed twelve times, for which 48 min-
utes must be deducted. Ten hours ~o minutes,
less 48 minutes, equals io hours and 2 minutes
for 140 miles, which gives for Selby i mile in
4-~j~% of a minute; Higgins and Tailer i mile in
4-~ of a minute, oran average of-~~6 of a min-
ute per mile in our favor, in spite of all the ad-
vantages in horses and road that Selby had
over us.
This, certainly the most sporting depart-
ure in the coaching line of modern times, was
conceived and carried out by the latest mem-
ber of the New York Coaching Club, Mr.
Eugene Higgins. He followed the advice of
Colonel Jay, the president since its foundation,
and came abroad to study coaching. Colonel
Jays influence for good in these matters has
made itself felt all over America, and many a
young whip has to thank him for finding him-
self on the road to success. When Mr. Hig-
gins found that, from the dusty archives of the
British Post Office, a genuine old mail-coach
had been reconstructed, he conceived the idea
ARRIVAL, ONE HOUR AND TRN MIRUTRS ABRAD OF TIMR, AT TOR HOTRL BELLEVUR, TROUVILLR. 86 THE ANS !VIYR.
of ~)lacing this bric-h-brac of a l)ygone day in
the e;i/ou;~z,y o fits time, and straightway sought
out a road which excellently represented the
one run from London to Devonport by the old
Quicksilver Royal Mail; moreover, he col-
lected fifty odd horses, which were queer and
strange like those of old, and in the spirit of a
true artist sought to make the equipment con-
form to the epoch represented. In the old time
the mails were constructed by the British Gov-
ernment with the same thoroughness that they
give to their ironclads to-day. The very best
engineers were consulted, and their specifica-
tions were handed to the constructors, who
were obliged to conform to them accurately.
Of this fact we have been able to assure our-
selves by the courtesy of Mr. R. C. Tombs,
Controller of the London Post Office, who
kindly gave us access to the original documents
at present in St. Martins le Grand.
Unfortunately the modern coach-builder
works by rule of thumb, and, because he has
been accustomed to 1)ut a certain camber to
his axle and a certain dish to his wheel, he
goes on so doing without any idea of the prob-
lem xvhich these two points involve. This was
solved years ago by the mathematicians em-
ployed by Parliament to make reports on this
subject. We attempted to discover upon what
principle these modern coach-builders were
working, and upon investigation found that
not one of them knew the law on the subject.
So American coach-builders were insisting on
a dish and camber that rested on a law of
England totally unknown there, and which
had never been in operation in America, where,
unfortunately, the law regulating the crown to
be given to roads has not yet been determined
upon.
Hence the strange anomaly, that an old Eng-
lish idea, after having been offered in vain
to English and American coach-builders, was
finally taken up by the enterprise of a French-
man well known in America, Mr. Guiet.
T Suffera Taller.
{x$7 2
THE ANSWER.
AROSE in tatters on the garden path
Called out to God, and murmured gainst his wrath,
Because a sudden wind in twilights hush
Had snapped her stem alone of all the bush.
And God, who hears both sun-dried dust and sun.
Made answer softly to that luckless one:
Sister, in that thou sayest I did not well,
What voices heardst thou whvn thy j3etals fell ?
And the Rose answered: In my evil hour
A voice cried: Father, wherefore falls the flower?
For lo, the very gossamers are still!
And a voice answered: Son, by Allahs will.
Then softly as the rain-mist on the sward
Came to the Rose the answer of the Lord:
Sister, before I smote the dark in twain,
Or yet the stars saw one another plain,
Time, tide, and space I bound unto the task
That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask.
Whereat the withered flower, all content,
Died as they die whose days are innocent;
XVhile he who questioned why the flower fell
Caught hold of God, and saved his soul from hell.
Rua~yard A7f/ing~

Rudyard KiplingKipling, RudyardThe Answer86-88

86 THE ANS !VIYR.
of ~)lacing this bric-h-brac of a l)ygone day in
the e;i/ou;~z,y o fits time, and straightway sought
out a road which excellently represented the
one run from London to Devonport by the old
Quicksilver Royal Mail; moreover, he col-
lected fifty odd horses, which were queer and
strange like those of old, and in the spirit of a
true artist sought to make the equipment con-
form to the epoch represented. In the old time
the mails were constructed by the British Gov-
ernment with the same thoroughness that they
give to their ironclads to-day. The very best
engineers were consulted, and their specifica-
tions were handed to the constructors, who
were obliged to conform to them accurately.
Of this fact we have been able to assure our-
selves by the courtesy of Mr. R. C. Tombs,
Controller of the London Post Office, who
kindly gave us access to the original documents
at present in St. Martins le Grand.
Unfortunately the modern coach-builder
works by rule of thumb, and, because he has
been accustomed to 1)ut a certain camber to
his axle and a certain dish to his wheel, he
goes on so doing without any idea of the prob-
lem xvhich these two points involve. This was
solved years ago by the mathematicians em-
ployed by Parliament to make reports on this
subject. We attempted to discover upon what
principle these modern coach-builders were
working, and upon investigation found that
not one of them knew the law on the subject.
So American coach-builders were insisting on
a dish and camber that rested on a law of
England totally unknown there, and which
had never been in operation in America, where,
unfortunately, the law regulating the crown to
be given to roads has not yet been determined
upon.
Hence the strange anomaly, that an old Eng-
lish idea, after having been offered in vain
to English and American coach-builders, was
finally taken up by the enterprise of a French-
man well known in America, Mr. Guiet.
T Suffera Taller.
{x$7 2
THE ANSWER.
AROSE in tatters on the garden path
Called out to God, and murmured gainst his wrath,
Because a sudden wind in twilights hush
Had snapped her stem alone of all the bush.
And God, who hears both sun-dried dust and sun.
Made answer softly to that luckless one:
Sister, in that thou sayest I did not well,
What voices heardst thou whvn thy j3etals fell ?
And the Rose answered: In my evil hour
A voice cried: Father, wherefore falls the flower?
For lo, the very gossamers are still!
And a voice answered: Son, by Allahs will.
Then softly as the rain-mist on the sward
Came to the Rose the answer of the Lord:
Sister, before I smote the dark in twain,
Or yet the stars saw one another plain,
Time, tide, and space I bound unto the task
That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask.
Whereat the withered flower, all content,
Died as they die whose days are innocent;
XVhile he who questioned why the flower fell
Caught hold of God, and saved his soul from hell.
Rua~yard A7f/ing~
I
SEE TOPICS OP THE TIME
LETTERS OF TWO
B ROT HERS.
FROM THE CORRESPONDENCE OF GENERAL ANI)
SENATOR SHERMAN.
INTRODU Cii ON.
LEJAM TECUMSEH SHER-
MAN was born in Lancaster,
Ohio, February 8, 1820, the
sixth child in a family of eleven.
His father was a judge of the
Supreme Court of Ohio, and a
man of prominence, hut died when Tecumseh
was only nine years old. At the death of her
husband Mrs. Sherman found herself unable to
provide properly for all her children, and Te-
cumseh was taken into the family of his fathers
oldest friend, the Hon. Thomas Ewing. At six-
teen he entered West Point, and four years later
was graduated sixth in the class of 1840. His
first military service was in Florida, but at the
beginning of the l\Jexican war he was sent with
troops to California, and so missed any oppor-
tunity for active service in the xvar. In i8go
he was promoted to a captaincy, an(l married
Miss Ellen Boyle I xx ing, the elder daughter
of the Hon. ihomis ii wing, then Secretary
of the Interior undei President Taylor. In 1853
Captain Shermm iesi~ned his commission and
became a banker in C Thfornia, representing a
St. Louis bankint~ house Owing to the finan-
cial troubles in Cthfoinrx in 1857, it was de-
cwled to close that branch of the bank, and
Sherman spent the next txvo years in Leaven-
worth, Kansas, as a partner in the law firm of
his brother-in-law, Thomas Ewing, Jr. Legal
work l)roved very distasteftil to him, and in
1859 he accepted the l)osition of superin-
tendent of the State Military Academy of
Louisiana. Here he remained until the break-
ing out of the War of Secession, sending his
resignation to the governor upon the seiz
PASSAGES

William Tecumseh ShermanSherman, William TecumsehJohn ShermanSherman, JohnSherman - Letters of Two Brothers: Passages from the Correspondence of General and Senator Sherman88-101

LETTERS OF TWO
B ROT HERS.
FROM THE CORRESPONDENCE OF GENERAL ANI)
SENATOR SHERMAN.
INTRODU Cii ON.
LEJAM TECUMSEH SHER-
MAN was born in Lancaster,
Ohio, February 8, 1820, the
sixth child in a family of eleven.
His father was a judge of the
Supreme Court of Ohio, and a
man of prominence, hut died when Tecumseh
was only nine years old. At the death of her
husband Mrs. Sherman found herself unable to
provide properly for all her children, and Te-
cumseh was taken into the family of his fathers
oldest friend, the Hon. Thomas Ewing. At six-
teen he entered West Point, and four years later
was graduated sixth in the class of 1840. His
first military service was in Florida, but at the
beginning of the l\Jexican war he was sent with
troops to California, and so missed any oppor-
tunity for active service in the xvar. In i8go
he was promoted to a captaincy, an(l married
Miss Ellen Boyle I xx ing, the elder daughter
of the Hon. ihomis ii wing, then Secretary
of the Interior undei President Taylor. In 1853
Captain Shermm iesi~ned his commission and
became a banker in C Thfornia, representing a
St. Louis bankint~ house Owing to the finan-
cial troubles in Cthfoinrx in 1857, it was de-
cwled to close that branch of the bank, and
Sherman spent the next txvo years in Leaven-
worth, Kansas, as a partner in the law firm of
his brother-in-law, Thomas Ewing, Jr. Legal
work l)roved very distasteftil to him, and in
1859 he accepted the l)osition of superin-
tendent of the State Military Academy of
Louisiana. Here he remained until the break-
ing out of the War of Secession, sending his
resignation to the governor upon the seiz
PASSAGES LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS. 89
ure of the State Arsenal, that being the first act
of open defiance against the general Govern-
ment on the part of Louisiana.
John Sherman was three years younger than
his brother Tecumseh, and at fourteen had al-
ready begun to support himself as a rodman
for the Muskingum River Improvement Com-
pany. He soon came to be engineer in charge,
but was removed after a years service in this
capacity, because he was a Whig. At seven-
teen he began the study of law in the office
of his eldest brother Charles, at Mansfield,
and May io, 1844, on coming of age, was ad-
mitted to the bar. In 1848, he was sent to the
National Whig Convention at Philadelphia,
and his political life dates from that time.
His intense interest in the excitement over the
attempt to repeal the Missouri Compromise,
from i8~ i ~, led to his election to Congress,
and from December, 1855, when he took his
seat in the House of Representatives in Wash-
ington, his firm convictions and his earnest-
ness in expressing them made him prominent.
He was appointed by Congress on the Kansas
Investigating Committee, a position of great
personal danger, and in i86i was elected sen-
ator from Ohio, only a few weeks before the
first shot was fired on Sumter. He always took
great interest in the financial questions of the
day, thus preparing himself for the work he ac-
complished as Secretary of the Treasury under
President Hayes.
After General Shermans death the desire to
know what use was to be made of his papers
NEw YORK, December, 1891.
was expressed so promptly, and with such evi-
dent sincerity, that I was led to undertake their
arrangement for publication. Early in the work
I found a series of letters which at once awoke
my deepest interest, and which proved to be
a correspondence between General Sherman
and his brother John, during more than fifty
years.
These letters, exchanged by men of such
eminence, and many of them written during
the most stirring times of our countrys his-
tory, seem to me a unique collection. They
make a correspondence complete in itself, are
of great historical value, and the expressions
of opinion which they contain are very freely
made, and give an excellent idea of the intel-
lectual sympathy existing between the bro-
thers. The letters, however, show but poorly
their great affection for each other. Their tem-
peraments and dispositions were so unlike, and
their paths in life led in such different ways,
that they naturally looked upon the great events
of the day from widely different points of view.
Still they never failed to feel and show for each
other the greatest love and devotion as well
as respect.
In publishing these letters, my chief desire
has been to let them speak for themselves, and
to put them in such form that they may easily
be understood. I feel sure that they will com-
manl general interest, and be accorded that
ready sympathy which was so freely and lov-
ingly expressed at the time of General Sher-
mans death.
Rachel Ewing Sherman.
THE STORM AND STRESS PERIOD.
THE SOLDIER COUNSELS MODERATION.
JN August of 1859 when General Sherman was
I appointed superintendent of the State military
school in Louisiana, great attention was being
paid in the South to the military education of
young men, and it is singular, in the knowledge
of after events, that General Sherman should have
gone to teach the art of war to the youth of the
South. \Vhile there, or about that time, he re-
ceived an offer from a banking firm to open a
branch office in London, but after consulting his
brother John, he decided not to leave this coun-
try and his school, in which he was soon greatly
interested. It was not long, however, before his
relations with the school became strained, owing
to his Northern ideas. In September, 1859, he
wrote to his brother John from Lancaster, Ohio,
where he stopped on his way to Louisiana:
I will come up about the 20th or 25th, and if
you have an appointment to speak about that
time I should like to hear you, and will so
arrange. As you are becoming a man of note
VOL. XLV. 12.
and are a Republican, and as I go south among
gentlemen who have always owned slaves and
probably always will and must, and whose feel-
ings may pervert every public expression of
yours, putting me in a false position to them as
my patrons, friends, and associates, and you
as my brother, I would like to see you take the
highest ground consistent with your party creed.
Throughout all the bitterness in the House of
Representatives before the war, General Sherman
urged upon his brother John to maintain a mod-
erate course; but even then the general thought
him too severe on the South, and in October,
1859, wrote as follows:
Each State has a perfect right to have its
own local policy, and a majority in Congress
has an absolute right to govern the whole coun-
try; but the North, being so strong in every
sense of the term, can well afford to be gen-
erous, even to making reasonable concessions
to the weakness and prejudices of the South.LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS.
90
If Southern representatives will thrust slavery
into every local question, they must expect the
consequences and be outvoted; but the union
of States, and the general union of sentiment
throughout all our nation are so important to the
honor and glory of the confederacy that I would
like to see your position yet more moderate.
In December, John Sherman being the Re-
publican candidate for Speaker of the House, the
brother, who was greatly excited and anxious as
to his election, writes from New Orleans, Sunday,
December 12, 1859:
DEAR BROTHER: I have watched the de-
spatches, which are up to December io, and
hoped your election would occur without the
usual excitement, and believe such would have
been the case had it not been for your signing for
that Helper book. Of it I know nothing, but
extracts made copiously in Southern papers
show it to be not only abolition but assailing.
Now I hoped you would be theoretical and
not practical, for practical abolition is disunion,
civil war, and anarchy universal on this con-
tinent, and I do not believe you want that.
I do hope the discussion in Congress will not
be protracted, and that your election if possible
will occur soon. Write me how you came to
sign for that book. Now that you are in, I
hope you will conduct yourself manfully. Bear
with taunts as far as possible, biding your time~
to retaliate. An opportunity always occurs.
Your affectionate brother, W. T. SHERMAN.
The folloxving letters relating to the Helper
book explain themselves:
WASHINGTON, D. C., December 24, 1859.
Mv DEAR BROTHER: Your letter was duly
received, and should have been promptly an-
swered, but that I am overwhelmed with calls
and engagements.
You ask why I signed the recommendation
of the Helper book. It was a thoughtless, fool-
ish, and unfortunate act. I relied upon the
representation that it was a political tract to be
published under the supervision of a committee
of which Mr. Blair, a slaveholder, was a mem-
ber. I was assured that there should be no-
thing offensive in it, and so, in the hurry of
business in the House, I told Morgan, a mem-
ber of last Congress, to use my name. I never
read the book, knew nothing of it, and now
cannot recall that I authorized the use of my
name. Everybody knows that the ultra senti-
ments in the book are as obnoxious to me as
they can be to any one, and in proper circum-
stances I would distinctly say so, but under the
threat of Clarks resolution, I could not, with
self-respect, say more than I have.
Whether elected or not, I will at a proper
time disclaim all sympathy with agrarianism,
insurrection, and other abominations in the
book. In great haste, your affectionate brother,
JOHN SHERMAN.
SEMINARy, ALEXANDRIA, LA., Jan. i6, i86o.
DEAR BROTHER: I received your letter ex-
plaining how you happened to sign for that
Helper book. Of course, it was an unfortunate
accident, which will be a good reason for your
refusing hereafter your signature to unfinished
books. After Clarks resolution, you were right,
of course, to remain silent. I hope you will
still succeed, as then you will have ample op-
portunity to show a fair independence.
The rampant Southern feeling is not so strong
in Louisiana as in Mississippi and Carolina.
Still, holding many slaves, they naturally feel
the intense anxiety all must whose people and
existence depend on the safety of their property
and labor. I do hope that Congress may or-
ganize, and that all things may move along
smoothly. It would be the height of folly to
drive the South to desperation, nnd I hope,
after the fact is admitted that the North has the
majority and right to control national matters
and interests, that they will so use their power
as to reassure the South that there is no inten-
tion to disturb the actual existence of slavery.
Yours, W. T. SHERMAN.
SPECULATIONS AS TO WAR.
THROUGH all of General Shermans letters of
this date, one can hear the thunder-crash before
the storm. His longing for peace and for the
avoidance of trouble is reassuring in a man of
great military longings and ambitions. In Feb-
ruary, i86o, he writes:
If Pennington succeeds, he will of course
give you some conspicuous committee,probably
quite as well for you in the long run as Speaker.
I dont like the looks of the times. This po-
litical turmoil, the sending commissions from
State to State, the organization of military
schools and establishments, and universal be-
lief in the South that disunion is not only pos-
sible but certain, are bad signs. If our country
falls into anarchy, it will be Mexico, only
worse. I was in hopes the crisis would have
been deferred till the States of the Northwest
became so populous as to hold both extremes
in check. Disunion would be civil war, and
you politicians would lose all chance. Military
men would then step on the tapis, and you
would have to retire. Though you think such a
thing absurd, yet it is not so, and there would
be vast numbers who would think the change
for the better.
I have been well sustained here, and the
Legislature proposes further to endow us well
and place us in the strongest possible financial LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS. 9
position. If they do, and this danger of dis-
union blow over, I shall stay here; but in case
of a breach I would go North. Yours,
W. T. SHERMAN.
Later, when things look more peaceful for the
country, he xvrites:
The excitement attending the Speakership
has died away here, and Louisiana will not make
any disunion moves. Indeed, she is very pros-
perous, and the Mississippi is a stronglink which
she cannot sever. Besides, the price of negroes
is higher than ever before, indicating a secure
feeling.
I have seen all your debates thus far, and no
Southern or other gentleman will question their
fairness and dignity, and I believe, unless you
are unduly provoked, they will ever continue so.
I see you are suffering some of the penalties of
greatness, having an awful likeness paraded in
to decorate the walls of country inns. I
have seen that of , and as the name is be-
low, I recognize it. Some here say they see a
likeness to me, but I dont.
The following letters, relating to John Sher-
mans speech in New York, explain themselves:
WASHINGTON, March 26, i86o.
Mv DEAR BROTHER: Yours of the 12th
instant was received when I was very busy,
and therefore I did not answer in time for you
at Lancaster.
Your estimate of the relative positions of
SpeakerandCh[ ]ofW[ ]andM[ ]
Com[ ] is not accurate. The former is
worth struggling for. It is high in dignity, in-
fluence, and when its duties are well performed
it is an admirable place to gain reputation. I
confess I had set my heart upon it and think
I could have discharged its duties. . . . My
l)resent position is a thankless, laborious one. I
am not adapted to it. It requires too much de-
tailed labor and keeps me in continual conflict;
it is the place of a schoolmaster with plenty of
big boys to coax and manage. I will get along
the best I can. . . . You need not fear my
caution about extreme views. It is my purpose
to express my political opinions in the City of
New York in April, and to avoid hasty expres-
sions, I will write it out in full for publication.
Affectionately yours, JOHN SHERMAN.
LoUIsIANA STATE SEMINARY OF LEARNING
AND MILITARY ACADEMY,
ALEXANDRIA, LA., April 4, i86o.
DEAR BROTHER: . . . I know that some
men think this middle course absurd, but no
people were ever governed by mere abstract
principle. All governments are full of anoma
lies, English, French, and our own; but ours
is the best because it admits of people having
their local interests and prejudices, and yet
live in one confederacy. I hope you will send
your speech, and if national, I will have it
circulated.
I see you have reported nearly all the ap-
propriation bills early in the session. This has
been referred to in my presence repeatedly as
evidence of your ability and attention to busi-
ness; so, whether you feel suited to the berth
or no, it will strengthen your chances in the
country.... Your brother, W. T. SHERMAN.
WASHINGTON, D. C., April 13, i86o.
DEAR BROTHER: I send you a copy of my
speech in New York. I delivered it with fair
credit, and to a very large, kind audience. Upon
looking it over, I perceive a good deal of bit-
terness, natural enough, but which you will
not approve. It is well received here. Affec
tionately yours, JOHN SHERMAN.
ALEXANDRIA, LA., May 8, i86o.
DEAR BROTHER: . . . Last night I got the
copy of the speech and read it. . . . There is
one point which you concede to the Southern
States, perfect liberty to prefer slavery if they
choose; still, you hit the system as though you
had feeling against it. I know it is difficult to
maintain perfect impartiality. In all new cases,
it is well you should adhere to your convic-
tion to exclude slavery because you prefer free
labor. That is your perfect right, and I was
glad to see that you disavowed any intention
to molest slavery even in the District. Now,
so certain and inevitable is it that the physical
and political power of this nation must pass
into the hands of the free States that I think
you all can well afford to take things easy,
bear the buffets of a sinking dynasty, and even
smile at their impotent threats. You ought
not to expect the Stuthern politicians to rest
easy when they see and feel this crisis so long
approaching, and so certain to come, absolutely
at hand. . . . But this years presidential elec-
tion will be a dangerous one; may actually
result in civil war, though I still cannot believe
the South would actually secede in the event
of the election of a Republican. . . . Your
affectionate brother, W. T. SHERMAN.
GENERAL SHERMAN FAVORS SEWARD.
AS the year goes on, General Sherman s anxiety
increases, and his position becomes almost too
strained for comfort. In his intense longing to
preserve peace, he favors the nomination of Sew-
ard rather than of Lincoln, believing him to be
less inimical to the South. In June of i86o he
writes 92 LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS.
I think, however, though Lincolns opinions
on slavery are as radical as those of Seward,
yet Southern men, if they see a chance of his
success, will say they will wait and see. The
worst feature of things now is the familiarity
with which the subject of a dissolut5on is talked
about. But I cannot believe any one, even
Yancey or Davis, would be rash enough to
take the first step. If at Baltimore to-day the
convention nominate Douglas with unanimity,
I suppose if he get the vote of the united South
he will be elected. But [if], as I apprehend will
be the case, the seceders again secede to Rich-
mond, and there make a Southern nomination,
their nominee will weaken Douglas vote so
much that Lincoln may run in. The real race
seems to be between Lincoln and Douglas.
Now that Mr. Ewing also is out for Lin-
coln, and it is strange how closely these things
are watched,it is probable I will be even
more suspect than last year. All the reason-
ing and truth in the world would not convince
a Southern man that the Republicans are not
abolitionists. It is not safe even to stop to dis-
cuss the question; they believe it, and there is
the end of that controversy. . . . Of course, I
know that reason has very little influence in
this world; prejudice governs. You, and all
who derive power from the people, do not look
for pure, unalloyed truth, but to that kind of
truth which jumps with the prejudices of the day..
So Southern politicians do the same. If Lin-
coln be elected, I dont apprehend resistance;
and if he be, as Mr. Ewing says, a reason-
able, moderate man, things may move on, and
the South become gradually reconciled. But
you may rest assured that the tone of feeling
is such that civil war and anarchy are very
possible.
JOHN SHERMAN S views AFTER THE ELECTION
OF LINCOLN.
THE following letter, written by John Sherman
to his brother shortly after the election of Lincoln,
is full of the intensest feeling, and is a complete
statement of the Republican sentiment of the time.
MANSFIELD, OHIO, November 26, i86o.
Mv DEAR BROTHER: Since I received your
last letter I have been so constantly engaged.
first with the election and afterwards in arrang-
ing my business for the winter, that I could not
write you.
The election resulted as I all along supposed.
Indeed, the division of the Democratic party
on precisely the same question that separates
the Republican party from the Democratic
party made its defeat certain. The success of
the Republicans has, no doubt, saved the coun-
try from a discreditable scramble in the House.
No doubt the disorders of the last winter, and
the fear of their renewal, induced many good
citizens to vote for the Republican ticket.
With a pretty good knowledge of the material
of our House, I would far prefer that any one
of the candidates be elected by the people
rather than allow the contest to be determined
in Congress. Well, Lincoln is elected. No
doubt, a large portion of the citizens of Louisi-
ana consider this a calamity. If they believe
their own newspapers, or what is far worse, the
lying organs of the Democratic party in the
free States, they have just cause to think so.
But you were long enough in Ohio and heard
enough of the ideas of the Republican leaders
to know that the Republican party is not likely
to interfere directly or indirectly with slavery
in the States, or with the laws relating to slavery;
that, so far as the slavery question is concerned,
the contest was for the possession of Kansas
and perhaps New Mexico, and that the chief
virtue of the Republican success was in its
condemnation of the narrow sectionalism of
Buchanans administration, and the corruptions
by which he attempted to sustain his policy.
Who doubts but that, if he had been true to his
promises in submitting the controversy in Kan-
sas to its own people, and had closed it by
admitting Kansas as a free State, that the Dem-
ocratic party would have retained its power?
It was his infernal policy in Kansas (I can
hardly think of the mean and bad things he
allowed there without swearing) that drove off
Douglas, and led to the division of the Demo-
cratic party and the consequent election of
Lincoln.
As a matter of course, I rejoice in the result,
for in my judgment the administration of Lin-
coln will do much to dissipate the feeling in the
South against the North by showing what are
the real purposes of the Republican party. In
the mean time, it is evident we have to meet in
a serious form the movements of South Caro-
linian Disunionists. These men have for years
desired disunion. They have plotted for it.
They drove Buchanan into his Kansas policy.
They got up this new dogma about slave pro-
tection. Theybrokeup the Charleston Conven-
tion merely to advance secession. They are now
hurrying forward excited men into acts of trea-
son without giving time for passion to cool or
reason to resume its sway. God knows what
will be the result. If by a successful revolution
they can go out of the Union, they establish a
principle that will break up the government into
fragments. Some local disaffection or tempo-
rary excitement will lead one State after another
out of the Union. We will have the Mexican
Republic over again, with a fiercer race of men
to fight with each other. Secession is revolution.
They seem bent upon attempting it. If so,
shall the government resist? If so, then comes LETTERS OP TWO BROTHERS. 93
civil war, a fearful subject for Americans to
think of.
Since the election I have been looking over
the field for the purpose of marking out a course
to folloxx~ this winter, and I have, as well as I
could, tested my political course in the past.
There has been nothing done by the Republican
party but merits the cordial approval of my
judgment. There have been many things said
and done by leading Republicans that I utterly
detest. Many of the dogmas of the Democratic
party I like, but their conduct in fact in adminis-
tering the government, and especially in their
treatment of the slavery question, I detest. I
know we will have trouble this winter, but I in-
tend to be true to the moderate conservative
course I think I have heretofore undertaken.
Whatever may be the consequences, I will in-
sist in preserving the unity of the States, and
all the States, without exception and without
regard to consequences. If any Southern State
has really suffered any injury, or is deprived
of any right, I will help redress the injury and
secure the right. They must not, merely be-
cause they are beaten in an election, or have
failed in establishing slavery where it was pro-
hibited by compromise, attempt to break up
the government. If they will hold on a little
while, they will find no injury can come to them
unless, by their repeated misrepresentation of
us, th stir up their slaves to insurrection. I
still hope that no State will follow in the wake
of South Carolina. If so, the weakness of her
position will soon bring her back again or sub-
ject her to ridicule and insignificance.
It may be supposed by some that the ex-
citement in the South has produced a corre-
sponding excitement in the North. This is
true in financial matters, especially in the cities.
In political circles, it only strengthens the Re-
publican feeling. Even Democrats of all shades
say, The election is against us; we will sub-
mit and all must submit. Republicans say,
The policy of the government has been con-
trolled by the South for years, and we have
submitted: now they must submit; and why
not? What can the Republicans do half as
bad as Pierce and Buchanan have done?
But enough of this. You luckily are out of
politics, and dont sympathize much with my
Republicanism anyway; but as we are on the
eve of important events, I write about politics
instead of family matters, of which there is
nothing new. . . . Affectionately yours,
JOHN SHERMAN.
GENERAL SHERMAN S UNREST IN LOUISIANA.
Tins is followed by a letter from General Sher-
man, in which one can see that already he fully
realizes the inevitable outcome of the dissolution
of the Union and the strength of the South.
Some months later he demanded 75,000 men
to defend Kentucky, which required in the end
more than twice that number to defend it, and he
was in consequence called and believed to be in-
sane. It was his knowledge, obtained through
his singular position in the South, that enabled
him to foresee more accurately than others the
immense proportions of the coming war.
LOUISIANA STATE SEMINARy or LEARNING
AND MILITARy AcADEMy
ALEXANDRIA, December i, i86o.
DEAR BROTHER: . . . The quiet which I
thought the usual acquiescence of the people
was merely the prelude to the storm of opinion
that now seems irresistible. Politicians, by hear-
ing the prejudices of the people and [in] run-
ning with the current, have succeeded in de-
stroying the government. It cannot be stopped
now, I fear. I was in Alexandria all day yester-
day, and had a full and unreserved conversation
with Dr. S. A. Smith, State senator, who is a
mali of education, property, influence, and
qualified to judge. He was, during the canvass,
a Breckinridge man, but, though a Southerner
in opinion, is really opposed to a dissolution
of our government. He has returned from
New Orleans, where he says he was amazed
to see evidences of public sentiment which
could not be mistaken.
The Legislature meets December to, at
Baton Rouge. The calling a Convention forth-
with is to be unanimous, the bill for arming the
State ditto. The Convention will meet in Janu-
ary, and only two questions will be agitated:
Immediate dissolution, a declaration of State
independence, or a general convention of
Southern States, with instructions to demand
of the Northern states to repeal all laws hos-
tile to slavery and pledges of future good be-
havior. . . . When the Convention meets in
January, as they will assuredly do, and resolve
to secede, or to elect members to a General
Convention with instructions inconsistent with
the nature of things, I must quit this place; for
it is neither right for me to stay, nor would
the Governor be justified in placing me in this
position of trust; for the moment Louisiana
assumes a position of hostility, then this be-
comes an arsenal and fort. . . . Let me hear
the moment you think dissolution is inevitable.
What Mississippi and Georgia do, this State
will do likewise. Affectionately,
W. T. SHERMAN.
In the next letter, of December 9, General
Sherman, after reasserting his belief that all
attempts at reconciliation will fail, and repeating
that Louisiana will undoubtedly follow South
Carolina and Georgia, laments personally this,
his fourth change in four years, and each time
from calamity, California, New York, Leaven-
worth, and now Louisiana, a state of affairs which, 94 LETTERS OR TWO BROTHERS.
it must be admitted, would have been discourag-
ing to any man. On December ~, John Sherman
urges his brother to leave Louisiana at once, while
the General waits, hoping against hope for peace.
/
/
I am clearly of the opinion that you ought
not to remain much longer at your present
j)ost. You will in all human probability be in-
volved in complications from which you can-
not escape with honor. Separated from your
family and all your kin, and an object of sus-
picion, you will find your position unendura-
ble. A fatal infatuation seems to have seized
the Southem mind, during which any act of
madness may he committed. . . . If the
sectional dissCnsions only rested upon real or
alleged grievances, they could be readily set-
tled, but I fear they are deeper and stronger.
You can now close your connection with the
seminary with honor and credit to yourself,
for all who know you sl)eak well of your con-
duct; while by remaining you not only involve
yourself, but bring trouble upon those gentle-
men who recommended you.
It is a sad state of affairs, but it is neverthe-
less true, that if the conventions of the South-
ern States make anything more than a paper
secession, hostile collisions will occur, and
probably a separation between the free and
slave States. You can judge whether it is at
all probable that the possession of this capital,
the commerce of the Mississippi, the control
of the territories, and the natural rivalry of en-
raged sections, can be arranged without war.
In that event, you cannot serve in Louisiana
against your family and kin in Ohio. The bare
possibility of such a contingency, it seems to
me, renders your duty plainto make a frank
statement to all the gentlemen connected with
you, and with good feeling close your engage-
ment. If the storm shall blow over, your course
will strengthen you with every man whose good
opinion you desire; if not, you will escape
humiliation.
When you return to Ohio, I will write you
freely about your return to the armynot so
difficult a task as you imagine. Affection-
ately your brother, JOHN SHERMAN.
The following short extracts from letters at
this time show the gradual approach of ~var.
(;eneral Sherman writes from Louisiana:
Events here seem hastening to a conclu-
sion. Doubtless you know more of the events
in Louisiana than I do, as I am in an out-
of-the-way place. But the special session of
the Legislature was so unanimous in arming
the State and calling a convention that little
doubt remains that, on January 23, Louisiana
will folloxv the other seceding States. Gov-
ernor Moore takes the plain stand that the
State must not submit to a black Republican
president. Men here have ceased to reason;
they seem to concede that slavery is unsafe in
a confederacy with Northern States, and that
now is the time; no use of longer delay. All
concessions, all attempts to remonstrate, seem
at an end.
A rumor says that Major Anderson, my old
captain (brother of Charles Anderson, now of
Texas, formerly of Dayton and Cincinnati,
Lars, William, and John, all of Ohio), has
spiked the guns of Fort Moultrie, destroyed
it, and taken refuge in Sumter. This is right.
Sumter is in mid-channel, approachable only
in boats, whereas Moultrie is old, weak, and
easily approached under cover. If Major An-
derson can hold out till relieved and sup-
ported by steam frigates, South Carolina will
find herself unable to control her commerce,
and will feel, for the first time in her exis-
tence, that she cant do as she pleases.
A telegraphic despatch, addressed to me at
Alexandria, could be mailed at New Orleans,
and reach me in three days from Washington.
WASHINGTON, D. C., January 6, i86i.
DEAR BROTHER: . . . I see some signs of
hope, but it is probably a deceptive light. The
very moment you feel uncomfortable in your
position in Louisiana, come away. Dont, for
Gods sake, subject yourself to any slur, re-
proach, or indignity. I have spoken to Gen-
eral Scott, and he heartily seconds your desire
to return to duty in the army. I am not at all
sure but that, if you were here, you could get
a position that would suit you. I see many
of your friends of the army daily.
As for my views of the present crisis, I could
not state them more fully than I have in the
inclosed printed letter. It has been very gen-
erally published and approved in the North,
but may not have reached you, and therefore
I send it to you. Affectionately your brother,
JOHN SHERMAN.
GENERAL SHERMAN RESIGNS FROM THE
LOUISIANA MILITARY ACADEMY.
GOYERNOR MOORE of Louisiana took posses-
sion of the arsenal at Baton Rouge, January so,
I86I. General Sherman comments upon this in a
letter written tohisbrother, January 16, and regard-
ing it as a declaration of war, sends in his resigna-
tion January i8,1 a copy of which he incloses to
John Sherman in a letter dated the same day.
ALEXANDRIA, January i6, i86x.
Mv DEAR BROTHER: I am so much in the
woods here that I cant keep up with the times
at all. Indeed, you in Washington hear from
I See Memoirs, Vol. I, p. 184. LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS. 95
New Orleans two or three days sooner than
I do. I was taken back by the news that Gov-
ernor Moore had ordered the forcible seizure
of the Forts Jackson and St. Philip, at or near
the mouth of the IVlississippi; also of Forts Pike
and Wood, at the outlets of Lakes Borgne and
Pontchartrain. All these are small forts, and
have rarely been occupied by troops. They
are designed to cut off approach by sea to New
Orleans, and were taken doubtless to prevent
their being occupied by order of General Scott.
But the taking the arsenal at Baton Rouge is
a different matter. It is merely an assemblage
of storehouses, barracks, and dwelling-houses
designed for the healthy residence of a garrison,
to be thrown into one or the other of the forts
in case of war. The arsenal is one of minor
importance, yet the stores were kept there for
the moral effect, and the garrison was there at
the instance of the people of Louisiana. To
surround with military array, to demand sur-
render, and enforce the departure of the gar-
rison, were acts of war. They amounted to a
declaration of war and defiance, and were done
by Governor 1\Ioore without the authority of
the Legislature or Convention. Still, there is
little doubt but that each of these bodies, to
assemble next week, will ratify and approve
these violent acts, and it is idle to discuss the
subject now. The people are mad on this
question. I had previously notified all that in
the event of secession I should quit. As soon
as a knowledge of these acts reached me, I
went to the vice-president, Dr. Smith, in Alex-
andria, and told him that I regarded Louisiana
as at war against the Federal Government, and
that I must go. He begged me to wait until
some one could be found to replace me. The
supervisors feel the importance of system and
discipline, and seem to think that my departure
will endanger the success of this last effort to
build up an educational establishment in Loui-
siana. . . . You may assert that in no event
will I forego my allegiance to the United States
as long as a single State is true to the old
Constitution. Yours, XV. T. SHERMAN.
LoUIsIANA STATE SEMINARY OF LEARNING
AND MILITARY ACADEMY,
ALEXANDRIA, January i8, i86i.
DEAR BROTHER: Before receiving yours of
the 7th1 I had addressed a letter to Governor
Moore at Baton Rouge, of which this is a copy:
SIR: As I occupy a quasi military position
under the laws of this State, I deem it proper
to acquaint you that I accepted such position
when Louisiana was a State in the Union, and
when the motto of this seminary was inscribed
in marble over the main door: By the liberal-
1 Meaning the letter of the 6th.
ity of the General Government. The Union
Esto perpetua. Recent events foreshadow a
great change, and it becomes all men to choose.
If Louisiana withdraw from the Federal Union,
I prefer to maintain my allegiance to the old
Constitution as long as a fragment of it survives,
and my longer stay here would be wrong in
every sense of the word. In that event I beg
that you will send or appoint some authorized
agent to take charge of the arms and munitions
of war here belonging to the State, or advise
me what disposition to make of them. And
furthermore, as President of the Board of Su-
pervisors, I beg you to take immediate steps
to relieve me as superintendent the moment
the State determines to secede; for on no
earthly account will I do any act or think any
thought hostile to or in defiance of the old
Government of the United States. With re
spect, etc. W. T. SHERMAN.
I regard the seizure by Governor Moore of
the United States Arsenal as the worst act yet
committed in the present revolution. I do
think every allowance should be made to South-
ern politicians for their nervous anxiety about
their political power and the safety of slaves.
I think that the Constitution should be liber-
ally construed in their behalg but I do regard
this civil war as precipitated with undue rapid-
ity. . . . It is inevitable. All the legislation
now would fall powerless on the South. You
should not alienate such States as Virginia,
Kentucky, Tennessee, and Missouri. My notion
is that this war will ruin all politicians, and that
military leaders will direct the events. Yours,
W. T. S.
In the following letter of February i, to John
Sherman, the General quotes the handsome note
from Governor Moore accepting his resignation.
I have felt the very thoughts you have spoken.
It is war to surround Anderson with batteries,
and it is shilly-shaJly for the South to cry
Hands off~ No coercion! It was war and
insult to expel the garrison at Baton Rouge,
and Uncle Sam had better cry Cave / or assert
his power. Fort Sumter is not material, save
for the principle; but Key West and the Tor-
tugas should be held in force at once, by regu-
lars if possible, if not, militia. Quick! They
are occupied now, but not in force. Whilst
maintaining the high, strong ground you do, I
would not advise you to interpose an objec-
tion to securing concessions to the middle and
moderate States, Virginia, Kentucky, Ten-
nessee, and Missouri. Slavery there is local,
and even if the world were open to them, its
extension would involve no principle. If these
States feel the extreme South wrong, a seeming
concession would make them committed. The
cotton States are gone, I suppose. Of course, 96 LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS.
their commerce xviii be hampered. . . . But
of myself. I sent you a copy of my letter to the
Governor. Here is his answer:
BATON ROUGE, January 27, i86r.
DEAR SIR: It is with the deepest regret I
acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the
~8th instant. In the pressure of official busi-
ness I can now only request you to transfer to
Professor Smith the arms, munitions, and funds
in your hands whenever you conclude to with-
draw from the position you have filled with so
much distinction. You cannot regret more than
I do the necessity which deprives us of your
services, and you will bear with you the respect,
confidence, and admiration of all who have
been associated with you. Very truly, your
friend and servant, THos. [O.J MOORE.
This is very handsome, and I do regret this
political imbroglio. I do think it was brought
about by politicians. The people in the South
are evidently unanimous in the opinion that
slavery is endangered by the current of events,
and it is useless to attempt to alter that opin-
ion. As our government is founded on the will
of the people, when that xviii is fixed, our gov-
ernment is powerless, and the only question is
whether to let things slide into general anarchy,
or the formation of txvo or more confederacies,
xvhich will be hostile sooner or later. Still, L
know that some of the best men of Louisiana
think this change may be effected peacefully.
But even if the Southern States be allowed to
part in peace the first question xviii be revenue.
Now,if the South have free trade, how can you
collect revenues in the eastern cities? Freight
from New Orleans to St. Louis, Chicago, Louis-
ville, Cincinnati, and even Pittsburgh, would be
about the same as by rail from New York, and
importers at Nexv Orleans, having no duties to
pay, would undersell the East if they had to
pay duties. Therefore, if the South make good
their confederation and their plan, the N orth-
em confederacy must do likewise or blockade.
Then comes the question of foreign nations.
So, look on it in any viexv, I see no result but war
and consequent changes in the form of govern-
ment.
A QUESTION OF MILITARY SERVICE.
IN March of 1861, General Sherman started
north by the Mississippi River. On the way, and
after reaching Ohio, he heard discussions as to
the advisability of coercion. XVhereas in the
South there were absolute unanimity of opinion
and universal preparation for war, in the North
there xvere merely argument and apathy. After
leaving his family at Lancaster, he went to
Washington, still uncertain as to his next move.
While there, he called on Mr. Lincoln, and
stated his fears and convictions as to war and the
gravity of it. Mr. Lincoln treated all he said with
slight scorn and absolute disregard, and re-
marked, Oh, well, I guess we 11 manage to
keep house.1 This, with the general unconcern
and disregard of the necessity of military in-
terference, discouraged General Sherman, and,
greatly dispirited, he returned to Ohio, and took
his family to St. Louis, after ascertaining from
friends that in all probability Missouri would
stick to the Union. In writing at this time he
says:
Lincoln has an awful task, and if he succeeds
in avoiding strife and allaying fears, he will be
entitled to the admiration of the world; but a
tune has occurred in all governments, and has
now occurred in this, when force must back the
laws, and the longer the postponement the
more severe must be the application.
On April 8 General Sherman wrote to his bro-
ther:
Saturday night late I received this despatch:
Will you accept the Chief Clerkship in the
War Department? We will make you Assistant
Secretary when Congress meets.M. BLAIR.
This morning I answered by telegraph: I
cannot accept.
In writing to explain his refusal, he does not
state the real reason, which was undoubtedly that
he preferred active service. John Shermans let-
ter of April 12 approved of the determination, and
states more fully his reasons for advising it. It is
interesting to see, from the very first, John Sher-
mans belief in his brothers talents as a soldier,
and conviction that he would rise to a high posi-
tion in the army in the event of war. Through
all of General Shermans letters of that time there
are evidences of very sincere distrust of himself,
and deprecation of Johns flattering belief un-
usual qualities in a man destined to greatness.
WASHINGTON, April 12, i86i.
DEAR BROTHER: I was unexpectedly called
here soon after receiving your letter of the 8th,
and at midnight xvrite you. The military ex-
citenient here is intense. Since my arrival I
have seen all the heads of departments except
Blair, several officers, and many citizens. There
is a fixed determination noxv to preserve the
Union and enforce the laws at all hazards.
Civil war is actually upon us, and, strange to
say, it brings a feeling of relief; the suspense
is over. I have spent much of the day in talk-
ing about you. There is an earnest desire that
you go into the War Department, but I said this
xvas impossible. Chase is especially desirous
that you accept, saying that you would be vir-
tually Secretary of War, and could easily step
into any military position that offers.
It is xvell for you seriously to consider your
conclusion, although my opinion is that you
ought not to accept. You ought to hold your-
1 See Memoirs, Vol. I, p. 196. LETTERS OF YWO BROTHERS. 97
self in reserve. If troops are called for, as they
surely will be within a few days, organize a regi-
ment or brigade, either in St. Louis or in Ohio,
and you will then get into the army in such a
way as to secure promotion. By all means take
advantage of the present disturbances to get
into the army, where you will at once put your-
self into a high position for life. I know that
l)romotion and every facility for advancement
will be cordially extended by the authorities.
You are a favorite in the army, and have great
strength in political circles. I urge you to avail
yourself of these favorable circumstances to
secure your position for life; for, after all, your
present employment is of uncertain tenure in
these stirring times.
Let me now record a prediction. Whatever
you may think of the signs of the times, the
Government will rise from this strife greater,
stronger, and more prosperous than ever. It
will display energy and military power. The
men who have confidence in it, and do their
full duty by it, may reap whatever there is of
honor or profit in public life, while those who
look on merely as spectators in the storm will fail
to discharge the highest duty of a citizen, and
suffer accordingly in public estimation.
I write this in great hurry, with numbers
around me, and exciting and important intel-
ligence constantly repeated, even at this hour;
but I am none the less in earnest. I hope to
hear that you are on the high road to the
General within thirty days. Affectionately
your brother, JOHN SHERMAN.
GENERAL SHERMAN STANDS ALOOF.
FROM the time of General Sherman s conversa-
tion with Mr. Lincoln he distrusted the prepara-
tions of the administration, which savored greatly
of militia and raw recruits. With this army Gen-
eral Sherman was unwilling to cast his lot, believ-
ing that he was worthy of a better command or
of none. In April he writes to John:
But I say volunteers and militia never were
and never will be fit for invasion, and when
tried, it will be defeated, and dropt by Lincoln
like a hot potato.
And in the same letter:
The time will come in this country when
professional knowledge will be appreciated,
when men that can be trusted will be wanted,
and I will bide my time. I may miss the chance;
and if so, all right; but I cannot and will not
mix myself in this present call. . . . The
first movements of our government will fail
and the leaders will be cast aside. A second
or third set will rise, and among them I may
be, but at present I will not volunteer as a
soldier or anything else. If Congress meet, or
VOL. XLV.i3.
if a National Convention be called, and the
regular army be put on a footing with the
wants of the country, if I am offered a place
that suits me, I may accept. But in the pres-
ent call I will not volunteer.
WASHINGTON, Sunday, April i~, i86i.
DEAR BROTHER: . . . The war has really
commenced. You will have ftill details of the
fall of Sumter. We are on the eve of a terrible
war. Every man will have to choose his posi-
tion. You fortunately have the military edu-
cation, character, and prominence that will
enable you to play a high part in the tragedy.
You cant avoid taking such a part. Neutral-
ity and indifference are impossible. If the gov-
ernment is to be maintained, it must be by
military power, and that immediately. You
can choose your own place. Some of your
best friends here want you in the War Depart-
ment; Taylor, Shires, and a number of others
talk to me so. If you want that place, with a
sure prospect of promotion, you can have it,
but you are not compelled to take it; but it
seems to me you will be compelled to take
some position, and that speedily. Cant you
come to Ohio and at once raise a regiment?
It will immediately be in service. The admin-
istration intend to stand or fall by the Union,
the entire Union, and the enforcement of the
laws. I look for preliminary defeats, for the
rebels have arms, organization, unity; but this
advantage will not last long. The government
will maintain itself or our Northern people
are the veriest poltroons that ever disgraced
humanity. For me, I am for a war that will
either establish or overthrow the government
and will purify the atmosphere of political life.
We need such a war, and we have it now. .
Affectionately yours, JOHN SHERMAN.
OFFICE ST. Louis RAILROAD Co.,
ST: Louis, April 22, r86i.
DEAR BROTHER: . . . I know full well the
force of what you say. At a moment like thjs
the country expects every man to do his duty.
But every man is not at liberty to do as he
pleases. You know that Mr. Lincoln said to
you and me that he did not think he wanted
military men. I was then free, uncommitted.
I approve fully of Lincolns determina-
tion to use all his ordinary and extraordinary
powers to defend and maintain the authority
with which he is clothed and the integrity of
the nation, and had I not committed myself
to another duty, I would most willingly have
responded to his call. . .
The question of the national integrity and
slavery should be kept distinct, for otherwise
it will gradually become a war of extermina-
tion,a war without end. If, when Congress 98 LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS.
meets, a clearly defined policy be arrived at,
a clear end to be accomplished, and then the
force adequate to that end be provided for,
then I could and would act with some degree
of confidence, not now.
I take it for granted that Washington is safe;
that Pickens can beat off all assailants; that Key
West and Tortugas are strong and able to spare
troops for other purposes; that, above all, Fort
Monroe is full of men, provisions, and warlike
materials, and that the Chesapeake is strongly
occupied. Then the first thing will be the aven-
ues of travel. Baltimore must be made to allow
the free transit of troops, provisions, and ma-
terials without question, and the route from
Wheeling to the Relay House kept open. Here
there must be some fighting, but a march from
Brownsville or Frostburg would be a good drill,
via Hagerstown, Frederick, and the Potomac.
From present information I apprehend that
Virginia will destroy the road from Harpers
Ferry west, and maybe the Marylanders will
try the balance; but, without an hours delay,
that line should swarm with troops, who should
take no half-way measures. . . . Affectionately,
W. T. SHERMAN.
CONFIDENCE IN McCLELLAN.
THROUGH all the spring months, while he was
nominally but president of a street-car company,
General Shermans imagination was engaged in
defending the country, building forts, occupying
positions of importance, and possessing railroads.
His letters were full of military suggestions, some
of whicb John Sherman showed the Secretary
of War, Mr. Cameron, who, as it might appear,
acted upon them.
OFFICE ST. Louis R. R. Co.,
ST. Louis, April 25, i86i.
DEAR BROTHER: . . . Virginias secession
influences some six millions of people. No
use in arguing about it at all, but all the Vir-
ginians, or all who trace their lineage back,
will feel like obeying her dictates and exam-
ple. As a State, she has been proud, boastful,
and we may say overbearing; but, on the
other hand, by her governors and authority,
she has done everything to draw her native-
born back to their State.
I cannot yet but think that it was a fatal
mistake in Mr. Lincoln not to tie to his ad-
ministration by some kind of link the Border
States. Now it is too late, and sooner or later
Kentucky, Tennessee, and Arkansas will be in
arms against us. It is barely possible that
Missouri may yet be neutral.
It is pretty nearly determined to divert the
half-million set aside for the July interest for
arming the State. All the banks but one have
consented, and the Governor and Legislature
are strongly secession. I understand to-day the
orders at the custom-house are to refuse clear-
ance to steamboats to seceding States. All the
heavy trade with groceries and provisions is
with the South, and this order at once takes
all life from St. Louis. Merchants, heretofore
for peace and even for backing the adminis-
tration, will now fall off, relax in their exer-
tions, and the result will possibly be secession,
and then free States against slave, the hor-
rible array so long dreaded. I know Frank
Blair desired this plain, square issue. It may
be that sooner or later it is inevitable, but I
cannot bring myself to think so. On the ne-
cessity of maintaining a government, and that
government the old constitutional one, I have
never wavered, but I do recoil from a war
when the negro is the only question.
I am informed that McClellan is appointed
to command the Ohio militia, a most excel-
lent appointment; a better officer could not
be found. . . . W. T. SHERMAN.
- WASHINGTON, May 30, i86i.
Mv DEAR BROTHER: Your recent letters
have been received. One of them I read to
Secretary Cameron, and he was much pleased
with some of your ideas, especially with your
proposition about Fort Smith and the island
off Mobile. The latter is probably now in pos-
session of the Government.
It is probable that no movements will be
made into the cotton States before winter. A
regular plan has been formed by General
Scott, and is daily discussed and reconsidered
by him and other officers. The movements
now occurring are merely incidental, rather to
occupy public attention and employ tro.ops
than to strike decisive blows. In the mean
time it is becoming manifest that the secession-
ists mean to retreat from position to position
until they concentrate sufficient force to strike
a decisive blow. I have a fear, not generally
shared in, that now a rapid concentration is
taking place, and that within a few days we
shall have a terrible battle near Washington.
Indeed, I dont see how it can be avoided.
General Butler at Norfolk, General McClellan
at Grafton, General Patterson at Charleston,
and General Scott here, all concentrating, will
surely bring on a fight in which I fear the Vir-
ginians will concentrate the largest mass. I
have been all along our lines on the other
side, and confess that we are weaker than I
wish. Every day, however, is adding to our
forces, and strengthening our position. .
What think you of Fnimont and Banks as
Major-generals of volunteers, and Schenck as
Brigadier? They are all able men, though I
know you dont like volunteers. These ap-
pointments are generally satisfactory, even to LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS. 99
the regular officers, many of whom say that
they had rather serve under able citizens than
old-fogy officers. The old army is a mani-
fest discredit. The desertion of so many offi-
cers (treachery, I had better say), the surrender
on parole of so many officers in Texas where
all the men were true to their allegiance, has
so stained the whole regular force of officers
that it will take good conduct on their part to
retrieve their old position.
You are regarded with favor here. It will
be your own fault if you do not gain a very
high position in the army. . . . Affection
ately yours, JOHN SHERMAN.
On May 3, i86i, John Sherman wrote from
Philadelphia:
The time is past for expedients. They must
either whip us, or we shall whip them. A threat
of secession is idle. Missouri cant secede,
nor can Virginia secede. . . . Those Dutch
troops in St. Louis will have enough backing.
Thank God, the arms in the arsenal were not
stolen. I am now acting as volunteer aide
to Major-general Patterson. Porter, Belger,
Beckwith, Patterson, Price, and others, are on
his regular staff.
GENERAL SHERMAN OFFERS HIS SERVICES.
IN John Shermans letter-book is a copy, sent
at the time, of a letter General Sherman wrote
to Secretary Cameron in 1861, giving his rea-
sons for not enlisting sooner. Upon receipt of
this, it was decided at Washington to make him
colonel of three battalions of regulars, or major-
general of volunteers.
OFFICE ST. LOUIS R. R. Co.,
ST. LOUIS, May 8, i86i.
HON. S. CAMERON, Secretary of War.
DEAR SIR: I hold myself now, as always, pre-
pared to serve my country in the capacity for
which I was trained. I did not and will not
volunteer for three months because I cannot
throw my family on the cold support of char-
ity, but for the three years call made by the
President, an officer could prepare his com-
mand, and do good service. I will not volun-
teer because, rightfully or wrongfully, I feel
myself unwilling to take a mere privates place,
and having for many years lived in California
and Louisiana, the men are not well enough
acquainted with me to elect me to my appro-
priate place. Should my services be needed,
the Records of the War Department will en-
able you to designate the station in which I
can render best service. Yours truly,
17~,T T. SHERMAN.
UNDER FIRE AS A SPECTATOR.
BEFORE leaving St. Louis, General Sherman
was an unintentional witness of the first fighting
in the West, of which he gives the following
account:
OFFICE ST. LOUIS RAILROAD Co.,
ST. Louis, May rr, i86i.
DEAR BROTHER: Very imprudently I was
a witness of the firing on the people by the
United States Militia at Camp Jackson yester-
day. You will hear all manner of accounts,
and as these will be brought to bear on the
present Legislature to precipitate events, may-
be secession, I will tell you what I saw~
My office is up in Bremen, the extreme north
of the city. The arsenal is at the extreme south.
The State camp was in a pretty grove directly
west of the city, bounded by Olive street and
Laclede Avenue. I went to my house on Lo-
cust, between Ekventh and Twelfth, at 3 P. M.,
and saw the whole cityin commotion, and heard
that the United States troops were march-
ing from the arsenal to capture the State
camp.
I told Ellen, then took Willy2 to see the
soldiers march back. I kept on walking, and
about 5.30 P. M. found myself in the grove,
with soldiers all round, standing at rest. I
went into the camp till turned aside by sen-
tinels, and found myself with a promiscuous
crow~zl, men, women, and children, inside the
grove, near Olive street. On that street the
disarmed State troops, some eight hundred,
were in ranks. Soon a heavy column of United
States regulars followed by militia came down
Olive street, with music, and halted abreast
of me. I went up and spoke to some of the
officers, and fell back to a knoll. . . . Soon
the music again started, and as the regulars
got abreast of the crowd, about sixty yards
to my front and right, I observed them in
confusion, using their bayonets to keep the
crowd back, as I supposed. Still, they soon
moved on, and as the militia reached the same
point a similar confusion began. I heard a
couple of shots, then half a dozen, and ob-
served the militia were firing on the crowd at
that point; but the fire kept creeping to the
rear along the flank of the column, and, hear-
ing balls cutting the leaves of trees over my
head, I fell down on the grass and crept up to
where Charley Ewing3 had my boy Willy. I also
covered his person. Probably a hundred shots
passed over the ground, but none near us. As
soon as the fire slackened, I picked XVilly up.,
and ran with him till behind the rising ground,
and continued at my leisure out of harms way,
and went home.
I saw no one shot, but some dozen men were
killed, among them a woman and little girl.
There must have been some provocation at the
1 His wife. 2 His eldest son. 3 Brother-in-law. 100 LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS.
point where the regulars charged bayonets and
where the militia began their fire. The rest was
irregular and unnecessary, for the croxvd was
back in the woods, a fence between them and
the street. There was some cheering of the
United States troops, and some halloos for Jeff
Davis.
I hear all of Frosts command who would
not take the oath of allegiance to the United
States are prisoners at the arsenal. I suppose
they will be held for the orders of the Presi-
dent. They were mostly composed of young
men who doubtless were secessionists. Frost
is a New-Yorker, was a graduate of West Point,
served some years in the army. . . . He was
encamped by order of the Governor; and this
brings up the old question of State and United
States authority. We cannot have two kings:
one is enough; and of the two the United States
must prevail. But in all the South, and even
here, there are plenty who think the State is
their king. As ever, yours affectionately,
W. T. SHERMAN.
OFFICE ST. Louis R. R. Co.,
ST. Louis, May 20, i86i.
DEAR BROTHER: ... The greatest difficulty
in the problem now before the country is not to
conquer, but so to conquer as to impress upon
the real men of the South a respect for their
conquerors. If 1\Iemphis be taken, and the army
move on South, the vindictive feeling left be-
hind would again close the river. And here in
Missouri it would be easy enough to take Jef-
ferson City, Lexington, and any other point,
but the moment they are left to themselves the
people ~vould resume their hatred. It is for this
reason that I deem regulars the only species of
force that should be used for invasion. I take
it for granted that Virginia will be attacked
with great force this summer, and that the great
problem of the warthe Mississippi will be
reserved for the next winter.
In the war on which we are now enter-
ing paper soldiers wont do. McClellan is natu-
rally a superior man, and has had the finest
opportunities in Mexico and Europe. Even
his seniors admit his qualifications. Yours
affectionately, W. T. SHERMAN.
A COLONELCY PREFERRED TO A
BRIGADI ERSHIP.
OFFICE ST. Louis R. R. Co.,
ST. Louis, May 22, i86i.
Mv DEAR BROTHER: I received your de-
spatch last evening stating I would be ap-
pointed colonel of one of the new 3-battalion
regiments. This was, I suppose, an answer to
my own despatch to the Adjutant-general ask-
ing if such would be the case. The fact is, so
many persons had written to me and spoken
to me, all asserting they had seen or heard I
was to have one of the new regiments, that I
thought the letter to me had been misdirected
or miscarried. . . . I shall promptly accept
the colonelcy when received, and think I can
organize and prepare a regiment as quick as
anybody. I prefer this to a Brigadier in the
militia, for I have no political ambition, and
have very naturally more confidence in regulars
than militia. Not that they are better, braver,
or more patriotic, but because I know the peo-
ple will submit with better grace to them than
to militia of any particular locality.
I think Missouri has subsided into a quiescent
state. There will be no attempting to execute
the obnoxious and unconstitutional militia law.
A prompt move on Little Rock from here and
Cairo and recapture of Fort Smith from Kansas
would hold Arkansas in checka movement
which could be made simultaneous with that
on Richmond. I hope no men or time will be
wasted on Norfolk; it is to one side and un-
important. The capture of Richmond would
be fatal to Virginia, and the occupation of
Cumberland, Hagerstown, and Frederick by
the Pennsylvanians, whilst troops threatened
Winchester from Washington, would make the
further occupation of Harpers Ferry useless.
But, after all, the Mississippi is the great prob-
lem of the Civil War, and will require large
forces and good troops. Affectionately your
brother, W. T. SHERMAN.
On May 14, General Sherman received a de-
spatch from his brother Charles in Washington,
telling him of his appointment as colonel of the
13th Regular Infantry, and that he was wanted
in Washington at once.
The following letter was written while he was
preparing to leave St. Louis for Washington, and
the next one (June 8) from Pittsburg on his way
East.
OyFICE ST. Louis R. R. Co.,
ST. Louis, May 24, i86i.
DEAR BROTHER: I have already written
you so much that more would be a bore. Yours
of the 2istis at hand, and I can act with prompt-
ness and sufficient vigor when the occasion
arises. You all overrate my powers and abil-
ity, and may place me in a position above my
merits, a worse step than below. Really I do
not conceive myself qualified for Quartermas-
ter-general or Major-general. To attain either
station I would prefer a previous schooling with
large masses of troops in the field one which
I lost in the Mexican War by going to Cali-
fornia. The only possible reason that would
induce me to accept high position would be to
prevent its falling into incompetent hands.
The magnitude of interest at issue now will
admit of no experiments. . .
I have still my saddle, sword, sash, and someTHE NEW MEMBER OF THE CL UB. ici:
articles of uniform whicb xviii come into immedi-
ate play. But look outI want the regular
army and not the 3-year men. . . . Yours
affectionately, XV. T. SHERMAN.
A FORECAST OF GENERAL THOMAS S ABILITY
TO COMMAND.
PITTSBURG, Sunday, June 8, i86i.
DEAR BROTHER: . . . Should I on my
arrival find the Secretary determined to go out-
side the army, and should he make advances
to me, of course I shall accept. In like man-
ner if he tenders me a brigade I will [do] my
best, or if a colonelcyditto. I still feel that
it ~ wrong to ask for anything, and prefer
that they should make their own choice of this
position for me. You are with General Pat-
terson. There are two A. No. i men there
George H. Thomas, Colonel 2d Cavalry, and
Captain Sykes, 3d Infantry. Mention my name
to both, and say to them that I wish them all
success they aspire to; and if in the vary-
ing chances of war I should ever be so placed,
I xvould name such as them for high places.
But Thomas is a Virginian from near Norfolk,
and, say what xve may, he must feel unpleas-
antly at leading an invading army. But if he
says he xviii do it, I knoxv he xviii do it well.
He was never brilliant, but always cool, reli-
able, and steady, maybe a little slow. Sykes
has in him some dashing qualities. . . . If
possible I will try and see you in your new ca-
pacity of soldier before I make another distant
break. If you please, you may telegraph to Mr.
Chase simply that I have come to Washington
on Taylors call, but I cannot wait long, and
if the Administration dont xvant my services,
to say so at once emphatically. Yours affec
tionately, W. T. SHERMAN.
WASHINGTON, June 20, i86i.
DEAR BROTHER: At last the order is out,
and I am Colonel ~3th Infantry. I have been
asking for orders, and am this moment informed
for the present, that inasmuch as Lieutenant-
colonel Burbank may enlist my regiment, and
as my personal services here are needed, I will
forthwith consider myself on duty here attached
to General Scotts staff as Inspector-general. I
did not dream of this, but it really does well
accord with my inclinations and peculiar na-
ture. My duty wjll be to keep myself advised
of the character and kind of men xvho are in
military service here near Washington, and to
report to General Scott in person. Porter can
tell you xvhat these duties will amount to.
I suppose you will soon be here, for from Colo-
nel Burnside I hear [that] all of Pattersons army
is on the Maryland side of the Potomac, and
no possible movement will be attempted before
Congress meets. . . . In haste, your brother,
W. T. SHERMAN.
General Sherman remained on duty with Gen-
eral Scott only ten days (June 2030), and then
was given command of one brigade of McDowells
army, which was to move from the defenses of
Washington.
He assumed command June 30, and went to
work at once to prepare his brigade for the gen-
eral advance.
CAMP OPPOSITE GEORGETOWN,
July i6, i86i.
DEAR BROTHER: We start forth to-day, camp
to-night at or near Vienna; to-morrow early
we attack the enemy at or near Fairfax C. H.,
Germantown, and Centreville; thereabouts xve
will probably be till about Thursday, when
movement of the whole force, some 35,000
men, on Manassas, turning the position by a
wide circuit. You may expect to hear of us
about Aquia Creek or Fredericksburg (secret
absolute).
If anything befall me, my pay is drawn to
embrace June 30, and Ellen has full charge
of all other interests. Good-by. Your brother,
W. T. SHERMAN.
(To be continued.)
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE
I.
OMETHING must have
detained me that evening,
since it was nearly mid-
night xvhen I arrived at the
club, and I hate to be so
tardy as that, for some of
our best members are mar-
- ned men now, who never
stay out after one oclock, or two at th~ very
furthest. Besides, the supper is served at eleven,
and the first comers take all the pleasant little
tables which line the walls of the grill-room,
leaving for the belated arrivals only the large
table which runs down the middle of the room.
As every one knows, ours is a club whose
members mainly belong to the allied arts. Of
course, now and then a millionaire manages
to get elected by passing himself off as an art
patron; but for the most part, the men one
meets there are authors, actors, architects, and
artists on canvas or in marble. So it is that the
supper served at eleven every Saturday night,
CLUB.

Brander MatthewsMatthews, BranderThe New Member of the Club101-109

THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CL UB. ici:
articles of uniform whicb xviii come into immedi-
ate play. But look outI want the regular
army and not the 3-year men. . . . Yours
affectionately, XV. T. SHERMAN.
A FORECAST OF GENERAL THOMAS S ABILITY
TO COMMAND.
PITTSBURG, Sunday, June 8, i86i.
DEAR BROTHER: . . . Should I on my
arrival find the Secretary determined to go out-
side the army, and should he make advances
to me, of course I shall accept. In like man-
ner if he tenders me a brigade I will [do] my
best, or if a colonelcyditto. I still feel that
it ~ wrong to ask for anything, and prefer
that they should make their own choice of this
position for me. You are with General Pat-
terson. There are two A. No. i men there
George H. Thomas, Colonel 2d Cavalry, and
Captain Sykes, 3d Infantry. Mention my name
to both, and say to them that I wish them all
success they aspire to; and if in the vary-
ing chances of war I should ever be so placed,
I xvould name such as them for high places.
But Thomas is a Virginian from near Norfolk,
and, say what xve may, he must feel unpleas-
antly at leading an invading army. But if he
says he xviii do it, I knoxv he xviii do it well.
He was never brilliant, but always cool, reli-
able, and steady, maybe a little slow. Sykes
has in him some dashing qualities. . . . If
possible I will try and see you in your new ca-
pacity of soldier before I make another distant
break. If you please, you may telegraph to Mr.
Chase simply that I have come to Washington
on Taylors call, but I cannot wait long, and
if the Administration dont xvant my services,
to say so at once emphatically. Yours affec
tionately, W. T. SHERMAN.
WASHINGTON, June 20, i86i.
DEAR BROTHER: At last the order is out,
and I am Colonel ~3th Infantry. I have been
asking for orders, and am this moment informed
for the present, that inasmuch as Lieutenant-
colonel Burbank may enlist my regiment, and
as my personal services here are needed, I will
forthwith consider myself on duty here attached
to General Scotts staff as Inspector-general. I
did not dream of this, but it really does well
accord with my inclinations and peculiar na-
ture. My duty wjll be to keep myself advised
of the character and kind of men xvho are in
military service here near Washington, and to
report to General Scott in person. Porter can
tell you xvhat these duties will amount to.
I suppose you will soon be here, for from Colo-
nel Burnside I hear [that] all of Pattersons army
is on the Maryland side of the Potomac, and
no possible movement will be attempted before
Congress meets. . . . In haste, your brother,
W. T. SHERMAN.
General Sherman remained on duty with Gen-
eral Scott only ten days (June 2030), and then
was given command of one brigade of McDowells
army, which was to move from the defenses of
Washington.
He assumed command June 30, and went to
work at once to prepare his brigade for the gen-
eral advance.
CAMP OPPOSITE GEORGETOWN,
July i6, i86i.
DEAR BROTHER: We start forth to-day, camp
to-night at or near Vienna; to-morrow early
we attack the enemy at or near Fairfax C. H.,
Germantown, and Centreville; thereabouts xve
will probably be till about Thursday, when
movement of the whole force, some 35,000
men, on Manassas, turning the position by a
wide circuit. You may expect to hear of us
about Aquia Creek or Fredericksburg (secret
absolute).
If anything befall me, my pay is drawn to
embrace June 30, and Ellen has full charge
of all other interests. Good-by. Your brother,
W. T. SHERMAN.
(To be continued.)
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE
I.
OMETHING must have
detained me that evening,
since it was nearly mid-
night xvhen I arrived at the
club, and I hate to be so
tardy as that, for some of
our best members are mar-
- ned men now, who never
stay out after one oclock, or two at th~ very
furthest. Besides, the supper is served at eleven,
and the first comers take all the pleasant little
tables which line the walls of the grill-room,
leaving for the belated arrivals only the large
table which runs down the middle of the room.
As every one knows, ours is a club whose
members mainly belong to the allied arts. Of
course, now and then a millionaire manages
to get elected by passing himself off as an art
patron; but for the most part, the men one
meets there are authors, actors, architects, and
artists on canvas or in marble. So it is that the
supper served at eleven every Saturday night,
CLUB.102 THE NE W MEMBER OF THE CL (lB.
from October to May, is the occasion of many
a pleasant meeting with friends who happen
in quite informally. When the weeks work is
done, it is good to have a place to forgather
with ones fellows a place where one can
eat, and drink, and smoke, a place where one
can sit in a cozy- corner, and talk shop, and
swap stories.
I cannot now recall the ~~eason why I was
late on the evening in question, nor just what
evening it was, although I am sure that it was
after Founders Night (which is New Years
Eve), and before Ladies Day (which is Shak-
speres birthday). I remember only that it
was nearly midnight, and that as I entered
the reading-room I was hailed by Astroyd,
the actor.
I say, Arthur, he cried, you are the very
man we want to take the third seat at our table.
You must have a bird and a bottle with me
to-night, for this is the last evening I shall
have at the club for many a long day.
Are you going on the road again? I
asked, with interest; for I like Astroyd, and
I knew we should all regret his departure.
I m off for Australia, that s where I m
going, he answered; thirty per cent. of the
gross, with five hundred a week guaranteed.
I take the vestibule limited at ten in the morn-
ing, and I m not half packed yet. So we must
get over supper at once. Besides, I want you
to meet a friend of mine.
Then, for the first time, I noticed the gen-
tleman who was standing by the side of As-
troyd, a little behind him. The actor stepped
back and introduced us.
Mr. Harrington Cockshaw, Mr. Arthur
Penn.
As we shook hands, Astroyd added, Cock-
shaw is a new member of the club.
At that moment one of the waiters came up
to tell the actor that the table he had asked
for was vacant at last, whereupon we all three
went into the grill-room, and sat down to our
supper at once. I had lust time to note that
Mr. Cockshaw was an insignificant little man
with a bristling, sandy mustache. When he
took his place opposite to me I saw that he
had light-br own eyes, and that his expression
suggested a strange admixture of shyness and
self-assertion.
While the waiter was drawing the cork, Mr.
Cockshaw bent forward, and said, with the
merest hint of condescension in his manner,
Im delighted to meet you this evening, Mr.
Penn, partly because just this very afternoon
I have been reading your admirable essay
On the Sonnet and its History.
I was about to murmur my appreciation of
this complimentary coincidence when Astroyd
broke in.
Arthur knows a sonnet when he sees it,
he said, and he can turn off as good a topical
song as any man in New York.
I cant write, myse~ Mr. Cockshaw went
on; I wish I couldthough I dont suppose
anybody would read it if I did. But my bro-
ther-in-law is connected with literature, in a
way; he s a publisher; he s the Co. of Car-
penter and Co.
Just then Astroyd caught sight of Harry
Brackett standing in the broad doorway.
Here you are, Harry, he cried; join us.
Have a stirrup-cup with me. I have nt seen
you for moons,not for steen moons,and
I m off for Australia to-morrow by the bright
light.
Is nt America good enough for you?
asked Harry Brackett, as he lounged over
to us.
Not at the beginning of next season, it
is nt, the actor declared. Electing a Pres-
ident of these United States is more fun than
a farce-comedy, and for two weeks before
the Tuesday following the first Monday in
November you cant club people into the
theater.
That s so, sometimes, responded Harry,
as Astroyd and I made room for him at our
little table; and I dont see how we are go-
ing to keep up public interest in Gettysburg
next fall, unless there s an old-time bloody-
shirt campaign. If there is, I 11 get a phono-
graph, and agree to let every visitor to the
panorama sample a genuine Rebel yell.
Astroyd caught the expression of perplexity
that flitted across the face of the new member
of the club, so he made haste to introduce the
newcomer.
Mr. Brackett, Mr. Cockshaw, he said;
adding as they bowed, Mr. Brackett is now
the manager of the panorama of the Battle of
Gettysburg.
And I m going to be buried on the field of
battle, Harry Brackett interjected, if I cant
scare up some new way to boom the thing
soon.
I should not think that so fine a work of
art would need any booming, Mr. Cockshaw
smilingly remarked. I had the pleasure of
going in to see it again only yesterday. It is
a great painting, extraordinarily vivid, exactly
like the real thing at least so I am told. I
was not at the battle myself, but my brother-
in-law commanded a North Carolina brigade
in Picketts charge; he lost a leg there.
I dont know but what a one-legged Con-
federate might draw, Harry Brackett solilo-
quized. The lectnrer we have now is no good:
he gives his celebrated imitation of a wound-
ed soldier drinking out of a canteen so often
and so realistically that he is always on the THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CL UB. 103
diminuendo of a jag when he is nt on the
crescendo.
If he gets loaded, said Astroyd, promptly,
why dont you fire him?
It s all very well for you to make jokes,
Harry Brackett returned, but it is nt easy to
get a lecturer who really looks like an old soldier.
Besides, his name is worth something: it is so
short that we can print it in big letters on a
single lineColonel Mark Day. I should nt
wonder if he had the two shortest names in all
the United States.
It is a short name, said the little man, as
though pleased to get into conversation again.
It is a very short name, indeed. But I know
a shorter. My brother-in-law has one letter
less in his, and one syllable more. His name
is Eli Low.
Harry Brackett looked at the new member
of the club for a moment as though he were
going to make a pertinent reply. Then appa-
rently he thought better of it, and said nothing.
As the conversation flagged I asked Astroyd
if he was going to act in San Francisco on his
way to Australia.
No, he answered; I. go straight through
without stopping, but I ye got two weeks at
Frisco coming home, and I shall play my way
back over the Northern Pacific. You know
Duluth and Superior are both three-night
stands now.
San Francisco is falling off every year,
Harry Brackett commented. The flush times
are all over on the coast. I remember the days
when a big attraction could play to ten thou-
sand dollars three weeks running.
Yes, Astroyd assented; Frisco is not
the show-town it used to be, though we took
nineteen thousand three hundred and forty in
two weeks, last time I was there.
Perhaps somebody will strike another bo-
nanza before you get back, I suggested; and
if there is another boom you can do a big
business.
I came near going out to the Pacific coast
last summer, said Mr. Cockshaw, to look
after a chicken ranch I m interested in near
Monotony Dam. Somehow I could nt find
time to get away, so I had to give it up. But
my brother-in-law was an old Forty-niner, and
he told me he once found a seven-pound nug-
get in a pocket. He had a claim at a camp
called Hell-to-pay.
Ive played there in the old days, As-
troyd remarked promptly. We did Hamlet
on a stage made of two billiard-tables shoved
back to the end of the biggest saloon in the
camp. But the place experienced a change of
heart long ago ; it has three churches now,
and calls itself Eltopia to-day.
It was a pretty tough town in my brother-
in-laws time, the little man declared. He
told me he had often seen two and three men
shot in a morning.
I had noticed that when Mr. Cockshaw men-
tioned the strange luck of his brother-in-laws
finding an extraordinary nugget in a pocket,
Harry Brackett had looked up and fixed his
eyes on the face of the little man as though
to spy out a contradiction between Mr. Cock-
shaws expression and his conversation. So
when our little party broke up, and Astroyd
had said farewell and departed, taking Cock-
shaw with him, I was not at all surprised to
have the manager of the panorama stop me
as I was making ready to go home.
I say, Arthur, he began, who is that
little fellow, anyhow the one with the al-
leged brother-in-law?
I answered that I had never met Mr. Cock-
shaw until that evening, and that Astroyd had
declared him to be a new member of the club.
Then that s why I have nt seen him be-
fore, Harry Brackett responded. Queer lit-
tle cuss, is nt he? Somehow he looked as
though he might be a dealer in misfit coffins,
or something of that sort. And the way he
kept blowing about that brother-in-law of his
would make a stuffed bird laugh. I wonder
what his business really is. What s more, I
wonder who he is.
To satisfy this curiosity of Harrys we asked
a dozen different men if they knew anything
about a new member of the club named Cock-
shaw, and we found that nobody had ever
heard of him. Apparently Astroyd had been
the only man there he had ever seen before
that evening.
Harry Brackett finally sent for the proposal
book, to see who had been his sponsors. He
found that J. Harrington Cockshaw, Retired,
had been proposed by Mr. Joshua Hoffman,
the millionaire philanthropist, and that he had
been seconded by John Abram Carkendale,
the second vice-president of the Methuselah
Life Insurance Company. But we could not
ask them about him, because old Mr. Hoffman
was on his steam-yacht R/iadarna;itkus in the
Mediterranean, somewhere between Gibraltar
and Cairo; and Mr. Carkendale was out West,
somewhere between Denver and Salt Lake
City, on his semiannual tour of inspection of
the agencies of the Methuselah Life. And As-
troyd, who had introduced him to us, and who
might fairly be presumed to be able to give us
some information concerning the new member,
was about to start for Australia.
So all we know about him, said Harry
Brackett, summing up the result of our re-
searches, is that his name is J. Harrington
Cockshaw, that he is Retired, whatever that
may mean,that he knows Joshua Hoffman104 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB.
and John Abram Carkendale well enough to
have them propose him here, and that he has
a brother-in-law, whose name is Eli Low, who
was in California in 49, who lost a leg at Gettys-
burg in Picketts charge, and who is now a
partner in the publishing house of Carpenter
and Co.
And with that information Harry Brackett
had then perforce to be content.
II.
THE next Saturday evening I arrived at the
club a little earlier. I had been dining with
Delancey Jones, the architect, and we played
piquet at his house for a couple of hours after
dinner. When we entered the club together
it was scarcely half-past ten; and yet we found
half a dozen regular Saturday night attendants
already gathered together in the main hall just
beside the huge fireplace emblazoned with the
motto of the club. Starrington, the tragedian,
was one of the group, and Judge Gillespie was
another; Rupert de Ruyter, the novelist, was a
third, and John Sharp, the young African ex-
plorer, was a fourth; while Harry Brackett sat
back on a broad sofa by the side of Mr. Har-
rington Cockshaw, the new member of the club.
When we joined the party the judge was de-
scribing the methods and the machinery of a
gang of safe-breakers whom he had recently
sent to Sing Sing for a bank burglary.
The bank almost deserved to be robbed,
the judge concluded, because it had not
availed itself of the latest improvements in
safe-building.
When a bank gets a chilled-iron safe, it s a
cold day for the burglar, I suppose, said Rupert
de Ruyter, who occasionally condescended to
a trifling jest of this sort.
A chilled-iron safe is better than a wooden
desk, of course, Harry Brackett remarked;
but the safe-breakers keep almost even with
the safe-makers. With a kit of the latest tools
a burglar can get into pretty nearly anything
except the kingdom of Heaven.
And it is almost as hard to get a really fire-
proof safe as it is to get one burglar-proof; said
Jones. The building I put up for a fire-in-
surance company out in Newark two years ago
burned down before the carpenters were out of
it, although the company had moved into its
own office on the first floor, and about half of
the books in the safe were charred into useless-
ness, like the manuscripts of Herculaneum.
I was never burnt out, myself, Mr. Cock-
shaw declared, taking advantage of a lull in
the conversation, but my brother-in-law was
president of a lumber company in Chicago at
the time of the great fire; and he told me that
most of the books of the firm were destroyed,
but that wherever there had been any writ-
ing in pencil this was legible, even though the
paper itself was burnt to a crisp, while the writ-
ing in ink had been usually obliterated by the
heat.
The hint of self-assertion which might have
been detected in Mr. Cockshaws manner a
week before had now totally disappeared, as
though he felt himself quite at home in the
club already, and had no need to defend his
position. His manner was wholly unobtrusive
and almost deprecatory. There was even a cer-
tain vague hesitancy of speech which I had not
noticed when we had met before. His voice
was smooth, as though to match his smooth
face, clean-shaven except for the faint little mus-
tache which bristled above the full lips.
So soft-spoken had he been that only Harry
Brackett and I had heard this contribution ofhis
to the conversation; and under the lead ofJudge
Gillespie the talk turned off from the ways of
burglars to the treatment of criminals, and thus
to the rights and wrongs of prisoners. Something
that Rupert de Ruyter said started off John
Sharp, usually taciturn and disinclined to
talk, and he began by denouncing the evils
of the slave-hunting raids the Arabs make in
Africa. To show us just how hideous, how vile,
how inhuman a thing slavery is, he was led to
describe to us one of his own experiences in
the heart of the dark continent, and to tell us
how he had followed for days on the heels of
a slave-caravan, finding it easy to keep the trail
because of the half-dozen or more corpses he
passed every daycorpses of slaves, women
and men, who fell out of the ranks from weak-
ness, and who either had been killed outright
or else allowed to die of starvation.
We all listened with intense interest as John
Sharp told us what he had seen, for it was a
rare thing for him to speak about his Afri-
can experiences; sometimes I had wondered
whether they were not too painful for him
willingly to recall them.
I wish I could go to Africa, said Rupert
de Ruyter. I know that it is a land of battle,
murder, and sudden death, but I believe that
a picture of the life there under the equator,
a faithful presentment of existence as it is, as
direct and as simple as one could make it I
believe a story of that sort might easily make
as big a hit as Uncle Toms Cabin.
And it might do as much good, said the
judge. There is no hope for Africa till the
slave-trade is rooted out absolutely. Until that
is done once for all, this sending out of mis-
sionaries is a mere waste of money.
Yet the missionaries at least set an ex-
ample of courage and self-sacrifice, suggested
Mr. Cockshaw, timidly. Of course I dont
know anything about the matter personally, THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB. 105
but my brother-in-law was with Stanley on that
search for Livingstone, and I am merely re-
peating what I have heard him say often.
After the new member of the club had said
this, I became conscious immediately that
Harry Brackett was gazing at me intently. At
last I looked up, and when he caught my eye
he winked. I glanced away at once, but I was
at no loss to interpret the meaning of this
signal.
For a while the talk rambled along unevent-
fully, and then some one suddenly suggested
supper. Ten minutes thereafter our little gath-
ering was dissolved. Judge Gillespie and John
Sharp had gone up into the library to consult
a new map of Africa. Starrington and de Ruy-
ter had secured a little table in the grill-room,
and pending the arrival of the ingredients for
the Welsh rabbits (for the making of which the
novelist was famous), they were deep in a dis-
cussion of the play which the actor wished to
have written for him. Mr. Cockshaw, Harry
Brackett, Delancey Jones, and I had made
ourselves comfortable at a round table in the
bow-window of the grill-room.
Perhaps it was the pewter mugs depending
from hooks below the shelf which ran all around
the room at the top of the wainscot which sug-
gested to Harry Brackett mugs of another
kind, for he suddenly turned on Jones abruptly:
And how are the twins?
The twins are all right, Jones answered,
and so am I, thank you.
And how old are they now? Harry
l3rackett inquired further.
Two months, the happy parent responded.
To think of you with a pair of twins,
mused the manager of the panorama. I be-
lieve you said there was a pair of them?
I~ suppose I did suggest that number when
I revealed the fact that my family had been
increased by twins.
Well, I never thought it of you, I confess,
Harry Brackett continued. You are an archi-
tect by profession, a lover of the picturesque,
an admirer of all that is beautiful in an odd
and unexpected way; and so I never dreamed
that you would do anything so commonplace
as to have two babies just alike, and of just
the same size, and the same age.
It is queer,I admit, Jones retorted; but
then this is leap-year, you know, and there are
always more twins born in leap-year than in
any other year.~~
I never heard that before, Harry Brack-
ett declared. I wonder why it is?
Perhaps, said the architect, as he took
down his own pewter mug, it is simply be-
cause leap-year is one day longer than any
other year.
Oh! ejaculated the man who had let
VOL. XLV. 14.
himself into this trap; then he rang a bell on
the table, and told the waiter who came in re-
sponse to take Mr. Joness order.
I wonder whether the prevalence of twins
has anything to do with the periodicity of the
spots on the sun, I suggested. Almost every
other phenomenon has been ascribed to this
cause.
I believe that the statistics of twins have
never been properly investigated, remarked
Mr. Cockshaw, gently. I have not studied
the subject myself but my brother-in-law was
a pupil of Spitzers in Vienna, and he was
much interested in the matter. He was pre-
paring a paper in which he set forth a theory
of his own, and he was going to read it at the
Medical Conference in Vienna during the Ex-
hibition of 1873, but unfortunately he died ten
days before the conference met.
Who died? Harry Brackett asked with
startling directness Spitzer or your brother-
in-law ?
Dr. Spitzer is alive still, the new member
answered; it was my brother-in-law who died.
I m glad of that, said Harry Brackett to
me, scarcely lowering his voice, although ap-
parently Mr. Cockshaw did not hear him. If
he s dead and buried, perhaps we shant hear
anything more about him.
And it was a fact that although we four, Jones
and I, Cockshaw and Harry Brackett, sat at
that little table in the grill-room for perhaps
two hours longer, and then went back into the
hall for another smoke, we did not hear the
new member of the club refer again that night
to his brother-in-law.
III.
A WEEK later I was pitting in my study,
trying to polish into lilting smoothness a tale in
verse which I had written for the Christmas
number of the Metfopolis; and in my labors
on this lyric legend I had quite forgotten that it
was Saturday night. I had just laid down my
pen with the conviction that whether the poem
was good or bad, it was, at least, the best I could
do, when Harry Brackett broke in on me, and
insisted on bearing me off to the club.
I want you to be there to-night, he asserted,
for a particular reason.
But what this particular reason might be he
refused to declare. I ventured on a guess at it,
when we were on our way to the club wrapped
in our rain-coats, and trusting to a single um-
brella to shield us both from the first spring-
squall.
I lunched at the club to-day, he said casu-
ally, just after a sudden gust of wind had turned
our umbrella inside out, and I heard that man
Cockshaw telling Laurence Laughton that hei o6 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB.
had never seen a great race himself, but that his
brother-in-law had been in Louisville when
Tenbroeck beat Molly Macarthy.
That s why you are haling me to the club
through this storm, I cried. You want a com-
panion to help you listen to Mr. Cockshaws
statements.
I want you to be there to-night, he an-
swered. And you will soon see why last Satur-
day, when I heard that that brother-in-law of
Cockshaws was dead, I gave a sigh of relief.
I thought we were quit of him for good and all.
But we are not. It was not Wednesday before
Cockshaw had resurrected the corpse, and gal-
vanizedit into spasmodic existence. Everynight
this week he has been dining at the club.
The brother-in-law? I asked.
No, he replied, only Cockshaw. If I
could see the brother-in-law there in the flesh,
Id pay for his dinner with pleasure. But that s
a sight I can never hope to behold. The man
has had too many strange experiences to sur-
vive. Why, do you knowbut there, I cant
tell you half the things Cockshaw has told us
now and again during the past week. All I can
say is that he has literally exuded miscellaneous
misinformation about that alleged brother-in-
law of his. No more remarkable man ever lived
since the Admirable Crichton and I never
heard that he had nine lives like a cat.
I deprecated Harry Bracketts heat in speak-
ing of Cockshaw, and I told him that I thought
the new member of the club was a most modest
and unassuming little man.
Thats just what is so annoying, returned
my companion. If he put on frills, and lied
about himself and his own surprising adven-
tures, I could forgive him; but there it is the
little semicolon of a cuss never boasts about his
own deeds; he just caps all our stories with
some wild, weird tale of his brother-in-laws
doings. It is the meanest trick out. Do you
believe he ever had a brother-in-law?
This query was propounded as we stood be-
fore the door of the club.
Why should nt I ? was my answer.
Oh, you carry credulity to an extreme,
Harry Brackett responded as he shut his um-
brella. Now I dont. I dont believe this
man Cockshaw ever had a brother-in-law, alive
or dead, white or black. XVhat s more, I dont
believe that he ever had either a wife or a sis-
ter; and unless he was aided or abetted by a
wife or a sister he could nt have had a brother-
in-law, could he?
If he chooses to invent a brother-in-law to
brag about, why should nt he? I asked.
There s many a man who has written a book
to glorify the great deeds of some remote an-
cestor from whom his own descent was more
than doubtful.
I know that, Harry Brackett responded,
as we entered the club and gave our storm-
coats to the attendants; and I know also
that there are men so lost to all sense of the
proprieties of life that they insist on telling you
the latest ignorant and impertinent remarks of
their sons of six and their daughters of five.
But I hold these to be among the most pesti-
lent of our species less pestilent only than a
man who tells tales about his brother-in-law.
I said nothing in reply to this; but my re-
serve did not check the flow of Harry Brack-
etts discourse.
All the same, he went on, people have
ancestors and they have children, and to boast
about these is natural enough, I m afraid. But
a brother-in-law! Why blow about a brother-
in-law? Of course it is a novelty at least I
never heard of anybodys working this brother-
in-law racket except Cockshaw. And I 11 ad-
mit that it is a good act, too: with an adroit
use of the brother-in-law Cockshaw can mag-
nify himself till he is as great a man as the Em-
peror of China, who is nephew of the moon,
great-grandson of the sun, and second cousin
to all the stars of the sky!
I protested against the vehemence of Harry
Bracketts manner, without avail.
But he s got to be more careful, he con-
tinued, or he 11 wear him out; the brother-
in-law will get used up before the little man
gets out half there is in him. No brother-in-law
will stand the wear and tear Cockshaw is put-
ting on him. Why, within a fortnight he has
told us that his brother-in-law climbed the
Jungfrauin 1853,lost a leg in Picketts charge in
1863, and went down in the Tecumsek in 1864.
Now I say that a brother-in-law who can do
all those things is beyond nature; he is a freak:
he ought not to be talked about at this dub;
he ought to be exhibited at a dime museum:
I tried to explain that it was perhaps possi-
ble for a man to have climbed a Swiss moun-
tain, and to have been wounded at Gettysburg,
and to have gone down in the Tecurnseh.
But if he was colonel of a North Carolina
regiment, how came he on board of a United
States ironclad? asked my companion.
Perhaps he had been taken prisoner, I
suggested, and perhaps
Shucks! interrupted Harry Brackett.
That s altogether too thin. Dont you try to
reconcile the little mans conflicting statements.
He does nt. He just lets them conflict.
We had paused in the main hall to have the
talk out. When at length we walked on into
the grill-room, we found Judge Gillespie, and
Rupert de Ruyter, and Cockshaw already get-
ting supper at the round table in the bow-win-
dow. De Ruyter called us over, and he and
the judge made room for us.THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CL UB. 107
As soon as we were seated, the judge turned
to Cockshaw with his customary courtesy, and
said, I fear we interrupted you, Mr. Cock-
shaw.
Not at all, the new member answered,with
an inoffensive smile. But as we were speak-
ingof philopenas I was only going to tell of
an experience of my brother-in-law. Twenty
years ago or so, when he was warden of the
church of St. Boniface in Philadelphia, he met
a very bright New York girl at dinner one Satur-
day night, and they ate a philopena together
give and take, you know. The next morning,
when he left his pew to pass the plate after the
sermon, he felt a sudden conviction that that
New York girl was sitting somewhere behind
him on his aisle to say Philopena as she put
a contribution into his plate. He managed to
look back, and sure enough he spied her in an
aisle-seat near the door. So he had to whisper
to a fellow-vestryman and get him to exchange
aisles.
In some tortured manner the talk turned to
churches and to convents. And this led Judge
Gillespie to give us a most interesting account
of his visit to the monastery on Mount Athos,
where the life of man is reduced to its barren-
est elements. When we had made an end of
plying him with questions, which he answered
with the courtesy, the clearness, and the pre-
cision which marked his speech as well in pri-
vate life as on the bench, the talk again rambled
on, rippling into anecdotes of monks and mon-
asteries in all parts of the world. Harry Brackett
had spent a night with the monks of Saint Ber-
nard in the hospice at the top of the Simplon
Pass; Rupert de Ruyter had made a visit to
the Trappist monastery in Kentucky; I had
been to the old Spanish mission-stations in
Southern California and New Mexico; only
the new member of the club had no personal
experience to proffer. He listened with unfail-
ing interest as each of us in turn set forth his
views and his adventures, serious or comic.
Then when we had all exhausted the sub-
ject, Cockshaw smiled affably and almost
timidly.
I have lived so quiet a life myself, he ven-
tured, that I do not know that I have ever
met a monk face to face, and I knoxv I have
never been inside of a convent; but when my
brother-in-law was a boy, he was traveling in
Brittany with his father, and one night they
were taken in at a convent. My brother-in-law
was given a cell to sleep in, and over his head
there was a tiny cup containing holy water; but
the boy had never seen such a thing before, and
he did nt know what it was for, so he emptied
out the water, and put his matches in the little
cup, that he might have them handy in the
night.
When was this? asked Harry Brackett,
feeling in his pocket for a pencil.
In 67 or 68, Cockshaw answered.
Harry Brackett pulled down his left cuff and
penciled a hasty line on it, an operation which
the new member of the club failed to notice.
Oddly enough, he continued, my bro-
ther-in-law saw a good deal of the Breton
priests who sheltered him that night, for he
was studying medicine in Paris when the war
broke out in 1870, and he joined the Ameri-
can ambulance, which happened more than
once to succor the brave Bretons who had
come up to the defense of the capital. Indeed,
he was out in the field, attending to a wounded
Breton, at Champigny, when he was killed by
a spent shell.
Remembering that Cockshaw had told us
before that his brother-in-law was drowned in
the Tecurnsek, I looked up in surprise. As it
chanced, I caught the eye of the new member
of the club. He returned my gaze in a straight-
forward fashion, and yet with a certain sugges-
tion of timidity. I confess that I was puzzled.
I looked over to Harry Brackett, but he was
gazing up at the ceiling, with his pencil still in
his fingers.
Then we both turned our attention to the
Gramercy Stew which the waiter brought
us, and which was the specialty of the club.
Judge Gillespie and De Ruyter had almost
finished their supper when we arrived, and
they now made ready to leave us.
I wish I were as young as you, boys, said
the judge, as he rose; but I m not, and I
cant sit up as late as I used. Besides, I must
go to the Brevoort House early to-morrow
morning, for I ye promised to take Lord Stany-
hurst to Grace Church.
Is Lord Stanyhurst over here? asked
Cockshaw, with interest.
He arrived this afternoon on the Siluria,
the judge an~wered. Do you know him?
I know hi~ son, replied the new member
of the club. After a momentary pause he added
In fact, we are remotely connected by mar-
riage. He is my brother-in-laws brother-in-
law.
Judge Gillespie and Rupert de Ruyter did
not hear this, for they had walked away to-
gether.
But Harry Brackett heard it, and he sat up-
right in his chair and cried: What was that
you said? Would you mind saying it all over
again, and saying it slow?
Certainly not, responded Cockshaw, with
no suggestion of aggressiveness with all his
wonted placidity. I said that Lord Stany-
hursts son was my brother-in-laws brother-in
law; that is to say, he married the sister of the
man my sister married.xo8 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB.
Do you know, Harry Brackett remarked
solemnly do you know that you have the
most remarkable brother-in-law on record? A
brother-in-law
so various, that he seemd to be
Not one, but all mankinds epitome.
How so? asked the new member of the
club, with a stiffening of his voice, as though
he were beginning to resent the manner of the
man with whom he was talking.
I sat still and said nothing. It was not my
place to intervene. Besides, I confess that my
curiosity made me quite willing to be present
at the discussion, even though my hope of any
possible explanation was remote enough.
I dont want to say anything against any
mans brother-in-law, Harry Brackett xvent
on, but dont you think that the conduct of
yours is a little queer?
Jn what way? asked Cockshaw, with
greater reserve.
Well, in the way of dying, for example,
Harry Brackett responded. Most of us can
die only once, but your brother-in-law man-
aged to die twice. First, he xvas drowned in
the Tecumselz, and then he was killed at
Champigny.
But that was not began the new mem-
ber of the club, and then he checked himself~
sharply and said, Well?
Well, repeated Harry Brackett, with pos-
sibly a shade less of confidence in his manner,
Well, he was a very remarkable character,
that brother-in-law of yours, before he departed
this life twice, just as though he had been twins.
In fact he died three times, for I d forgotten
his demise in Vienna in 1873, just before the
Exhibition opened. His habit of dying on the in-
stalment plan did nt prevent him from putting
in his fine work all along the line. I dont suppose
that you married the sister of the Wandering
Jew or that your sister married the Flying
Dutchman, but I confess I canj think of any
dther explanation. You see I ye been keeping
tab on my cuff. Your brother-in-laws name
is Eli Low, and he is now a partner in Car-
penter & Co., the publishers. But he went to
California in 1849, and he climbed the Jung-
frau in 1853, and he lost a leg at Gettysburg
in 1863, and he lost his life by the sinking of
the Tecumsc/z in 1864, which did not prevent his
being a boy in Brittany a few years later, or
his getting killed all over again at Champigny
in 1870 although I should think the Prus-
sians would have been ashamed to hit a
drowned man, even with a spent shell. And
this second demise never interfered with his
being president of a lumber company in
Chicago at the time of the fire, i87i, or with
his going in the same year to Africa with
Stanley to find Livingstone. But he must have
scurried home prettypromptly,becausein 1872
he was a warden of St Bonifaces in Philadel-
phia; and then he must have flitted back
across the Atlantic in double-quick time, be-
cause in 1873 he was studying with Dr. Spitzer
in Vienna, where he died a third time. So
even if he were a cat he would have only six
lives left now. In 1876 he seems to have gone
to Louisville to see the Fourth of July race be-
tween Tenbroeck and Molly Macarthy; and
now to-day in 1892 he is a partner in a pub-
lishing house here in New York.
To this long statement of Harry Bracketts
Mr. Harrington Cockshaw listened in abso-
lute silence, making no attempt to interrupt
and seeming wholly unabashed. Once a smile
hovered around the corners of his mouth for
a moment only, vanishing as quickly as it
came.
Now he lifted his eyes, and looked Harry
Brackett squarely in the face.
So you think I have been lying? he asked.
I would nt say that, was the answer.
I m not setting up codes of veracity for other
people. But taking things by and large, I
cant help thinking that your brother-in-law
has had more than his share of experience. I
wonder he does nt go on the road as a lec-
turer or else I wonder that you yourself
dont write a novel.
The new member of the club repeated his
question: You think I m a liar?
Harry Brackett made no reply.
Cockshaw continued in a perfectly even
voice with no tremor in it. You think that
when I told you all these things that you have
amused yourself in setting down on your cuff
in chronological order, I was telling you what
was not so? Then what will you say, when I
assure you that every statement of mine is
strictly accurate?
If you assure me, Harry Brackett an-
swered, that your brother-in-law died once
in 1864, and again in 1870, and a third time in
1873, all I can say is that he wanted to be in
at the death, that s all. He was fonder of dy-
ing than any man I ever heard of.
Mr. Brackett, said the little man, when
I told you all these things, one at a time, about
my brother-in-law, I never meant to suggest,
and I never supposed you xvould believe, that
they all referred to one and the same brother-
in-law. They dont. My wife has six brothers,
and I have five sisters, all married now so I
have still eight brothers-in-law surviving.
Harry Brackett rang the little bell on the table,
and when the waiter came he said, Take Mr.
Cockshaws order.
Brander Mat/hews.TO GIPSYLAND.
BY ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL.
PICTURES BY JOSEPH PENNELL.
I.
INTRODUCTION: A PHILADELPHIAN
ADVENTURE.
ITwas from Philadelphia that
I first wandered into gipsy-
land. In those days the town
seemed so dull. Now that I
have been many years away,
I feel the charm of its prim
streets lined with endless red
brick and white marble and
green shutters, the charm of
the fine colonial mansions long
since forsaken by fashion, the
charm of the old churches with
their little strip of green graveyard, or the
quiet meeting-houses overshadowed by great
trees, ~vhere gray-shawled women Friends,
their sweet faces looking mildly from plain
bonnets, and men Friends, in broad-brimmed
hats and plain coats, linger when meeting is
out on First Day morning. I feel it all now,
until my own city seems lovelier and more
picturesque than many a more world-famed
town. But then I knew little else, and I wearied
of it, as all good Philadelphians do. I wanted
something new, something strange, something
different, to give it the touch of romance, which
I believed it lacked so sadly. And this novelty,
this romance, this contrast, I thought I found
in the gipsies. I was young: in my eyes they
brought with them all the glamour of the East,
all the mystery of the unknown.
We used to go to see them, the Rye and
I, when we knew their tents were pitched in
pretty woodland or lonely field near the city.
The Rye is my uncle, Hans Breitmann (Mr.
Charles G. Leland), whom all the Romanies
know. His gipsy lore was great; mine, all
gleaned from him, was infinitely less, but even
he, I think, did not love the Romany better
than I. If the gipsy has cast his spell over many
a wise man, over a Borrow in England, an
archduke in Austria, a Hermann in Hungary,
why should I be ashamed to say that in the
years so long past the curl of the white smoke
among the trees could set my heart to beating;
that the first glimpse of the gay green van, with
the pillows, white and ruffled, hanging from the
window, could thrill me with joy? Have I not
VOL. XLV.I5.
said I was young when I first wandered into
gipsyland?
Often J was with us when we went gip-
sying; indeed, he too was greeted as a friend
by every traveler on the road to whom he
wished Sars/zan! the mystic password of
these freemasons from the home of strange
secret brotherhoods.
When the first sweet days of spring came,
and blossoming fruit-trees lighted up many a
trim side-yard, and trailed in purple glory over
the second-story veranda, and the smell of the
ailantus was strong in the streets, and spar-
rows were busy eating up the measuring-worms,
then we would walk far out Broad street,
through the dripping darkness of the public
buildings, past the Masonic Temple and the
Academy of Fine Arts, past the big, pretentious
houses of the rich up-town people, to where
a bit ~of meadow-land between the built-up
squares showed that we were well in the suburbs.
For it was there that, in Oakdale Park, just be-
hind the Rising Sun, but shut in by hedge and
trees, the Costelloes, traveling northward after
their winter in Florida, pitched their tents. And
nowhere, from one end of Philadelphia to the
other, were we more welcome than under this
brown canvas roof, where, sitting on the car-
peted ground, for the Costelloes were swells,
they offered us beer in silver mugs, each
marked with different initials, and gave us the
gossip of the roads, ~vhile the dogs and babies
tumbled in the long grass outside, and the pet
goat strayed into the tent to rub himself against
the old man, and the horses browsed under the
apple-trees.
But in the autumn, when the wind blew cold
and fresh, and the country was aflame with
scarlet and gold, and brilliant chrysanthemums
and scarlet sage filled the borders of our grass-
plots with their wealth of color, it was over to
Camden we went, out to the reservoir beyond
the town, where Davy Wharton and the Bos-
wells had their camp. And of all, this, as I
look back, is the gipsy tramp I like the best.
For sometimes we would walk down Spruce
street, silent and asleep at all hours, by the old
Pennsylvania Hospital, getting one glimpse
into its garden, lovelier and quainter, it seems
to me now, than any I have seen in England,
and then up Seventh street to Washington
109

Elizabeth Robins PennellPennell, Elizabeth RobinsTo Gipsyland109-121

TO GIPSYLAND.
BY ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL.
PICTURES BY JOSEPH PENNELL.
I.
INTRODUCTION: A PHILADELPHIAN
ADVENTURE.
ITwas from Philadelphia that
I first wandered into gipsy-
land. In those days the town
seemed so dull. Now that I
have been many years away,
I feel the charm of its prim
streets lined with endless red
brick and white marble and
green shutters, the charm of
the fine colonial mansions long
since forsaken by fashion, the
charm of the old churches with
their little strip of green graveyard, or the
quiet meeting-houses overshadowed by great
trees, ~vhere gray-shawled women Friends,
their sweet faces looking mildly from plain
bonnets, and men Friends, in broad-brimmed
hats and plain coats, linger when meeting is
out on First Day morning. I feel it all now,
until my own city seems lovelier and more
picturesque than many a more world-famed
town. But then I knew little else, and I wearied
of it, as all good Philadelphians do. I wanted
something new, something strange, something
different, to give it the touch of romance, which
I believed it lacked so sadly. And this novelty,
this romance, this contrast, I thought I found
in the gipsies. I was young: in my eyes they
brought with them all the glamour of the East,
all the mystery of the unknown.
We used to go to see them, the Rye and
I, when we knew their tents were pitched in
pretty woodland or lonely field near the city.
The Rye is my uncle, Hans Breitmann (Mr.
Charles G. Leland), whom all the Romanies
know. His gipsy lore was great; mine, all
gleaned from him, was infinitely less, but even
he, I think, did not love the Romany better
than I. If the gipsy has cast his spell over many
a wise man, over a Borrow in England, an
archduke in Austria, a Hermann in Hungary,
why should I be ashamed to say that in the
years so long past the curl of the white smoke
among the trees could set my heart to beating;
that the first glimpse of the gay green van, with
the pillows, white and ruffled, hanging from the
window, could thrill me with joy? Have I not
VOL. XLV.I5.
said I was young when I first wandered into
gipsyland?
Often J was with us when we went gip-
sying; indeed, he too was greeted as a friend
by every traveler on the road to whom he
wished Sars/zan! the mystic password of
these freemasons from the home of strange
secret brotherhoods.
When the first sweet days of spring came,
and blossoming fruit-trees lighted up many a
trim side-yard, and trailed in purple glory over
the second-story veranda, and the smell of the
ailantus was strong in the streets, and spar-
rows were busy eating up the measuring-worms,
then we would walk far out Broad street,
through the dripping darkness of the public
buildings, past the Masonic Temple and the
Academy of Fine Arts, past the big, pretentious
houses of the rich up-town people, to where
a bit ~of meadow-land between the built-up
squares showed that we were well in the suburbs.
For it was there that, in Oakdale Park, just be-
hind the Rising Sun, but shut in by hedge and
trees, the Costelloes, traveling northward after
their winter in Florida, pitched their tents. And
nowhere, from one end of Philadelphia to the
other, were we more welcome than under this
brown canvas roof, where, sitting on the car-
peted ground, for the Costelloes were swells,
they offered us beer in silver mugs, each
marked with different initials, and gave us the
gossip of the roads, ~vhile the dogs and babies
tumbled in the long grass outside, and the pet
goat strayed into the tent to rub himself against
the old man, and the horses browsed under the
apple-trees.
But in the autumn, when the wind blew cold
and fresh, and the country was aflame with
scarlet and gold, and brilliant chrysanthemums
and scarlet sage filled the borders of our grass-
plots with their wealth of color, it was over to
Camden we went, out to the reservoir beyond
the town, where Davy Wharton and the Bos-
wells had their camp. And of all, this, as I
look back, is the gipsy tramp I like the best.
For sometimes we would walk down Spruce
street, silent and asleep at all hours, by the old
Pennsylvania Hospital, getting one glimpse
into its garden, lovelier and quainter, it seems
to me now, than any I have seen in England,
and then up Seventh street to Washington
109 110 TO GIPSYLAND.
Square, where a few gray-haired men shared
the seats under the trees with the nurses and
children, across Independence Square, through
Independence Hall, and so on along the noisi-
est business streets to Market street and the
Camden Ferry. Or else we would go at once
over to Chestnut street, at the hour when it
was gay with shoppers and sunshine, when
we knew we would always meet, first, George
H. I3oker, Philadelphias only poet, as he called
himself; white-haired, white-mustached, dis-
tinguished, and handsome, belonging there as
essentially as the statue of George Washington
in front of the old Statehouse, so that the
street will never seem the same to me again,
now that he has taken his last walk there; and
next, further on, we would pass George XV.
Childs walking borne with Tony~ Drexel,
and between them the inevitable stray prince,
or author, or clergyman from England. And
whichever way we took we knexv that, as likely
as not, we would find Walt Whitman on the
ferry, or sitting in his favorite big chair by the
fruit-stand at the foot of Market street, or just
getting out of the street-car. He always had
a friendly greeting for us, a friendly word about
the travelers who made their autumn home so
near his. I can never think of idle Davy Whar-
ton or pretty Susie Boswell, lounging on the
sunlit grass, without seeing the familiar figure,
of the good, gray poet, leaning on his stick,
his long white beard hiding and showing the
loose open shirt, his soft, gray felt hat shading
the kindly eyes.
Now and then, in crowded street, we caught
the gleam of the gipsy smile; now and then,
in country walks, we came suddenly upon a
tent by the wayside, and these chance meet-
ings had all the delight of the unexpected.
And there were great occasions when we left
Philadelphia far behind, and went down to a
country fair in some New Jersey town. It
was on one of these, I remember, that I was
first introduced to the Lovells.
I thought nothing could be more enchant-
ing than the life these people led, wandering
at will from the pine forests of Maine to the
orange groves of the far South; pitching their
tents now in blossoming Qrchard, now under
burning maple; sleeping and fiddling and
smoking away their days while the rest of the
world toiled and labored in misery and hun-
ger. But if I said this to the Rye, he would
laugh, and wish that I could see the Hunga-
rian gipsies. They were wilder and freer, and
all the strange beauty and poetry of their lives
they put into their music when they played.
There was magic in it.
One memorable day in Chestnut street
it was Sunday morning, and the stores were
shut, and the street-cars without their bells
rattled down at longer intervals, and every
one, in Sunday clothes, was walking home
from church or meeting we met three of
the wildest, most beautiful creatures I had
ever imagined. They were tall and lithe and
muscular, and their dark faces, with the small,
delicate, regular features, were as lovely as
those that look out from many an old Floren-
tine picture of Christ and the saints. Their hair
hung in black curls to their shoulders, they
wore high black sheepskin caps, a row of sil-
ver buttons adorned their sbort blue jackets,
and they carried large bags of coarse canvas.
They seemed as out of place in our proper
Chestnut street as ghosts at midday. The Rye
stopped and spoke to them. They were gipsies
from Hungary, and a light came into their eyes,
and they showed their pretty white teeth, at the
first word of Romany. But at once a crowd
of idlers gathered. Who are they? what are
they? what do they say? we were asked on
every side. It was unbearable, and with a
grasp of their hands we let them go.
This was the beginning of it. After that
meeting I felt that I never could be content
until I had gone to the real gipsyland to
Hungary, where
Free is the bird in the air,
And the fish where the river flows;
Free is the deer in the forest,
And the gipsy wherever he goes.
Hurrah!
And the gipsy wherever he goes.
When next I sat with the Costelloes in the
tent at Oakdale Park, when next I gossiped
with Davy Wharton in the woods near the
Camden reservoir, I thought that something
I could hardly say whathad gone from
them forever.
A year later, when summer came, the Rye
went northward, where, in scented pine woods,
within sound of the sea, he spent long hours in
Indian wigwams, while Towah told him tales
of Gloscap and his wicked brother. But I was
in Chestnut Hill, with nothing more exciting to
listen to than the song of the crickets through
the warm evening in our garden, sweet with
roses and honeysuckle.
And then it was that one morning I saw in
the Ledgers column of advertisements that
Hungarian gipsies were to play at the Miin-
nerchor, the up-town beer-garden where no self-
respecting Philadelphian living within the cor-
rect radius of the old rime of the streets,
Chestnut, Walnut, Spruce, and Pine,
would willingly be seen. To go there was con-
sidered fast in those days; but it was no-
thing to me where the gipsies were to be found;
that they were to play was all I cared to know. TO GIPSYLAND. III
II.
THE July night was warm
and close when Ned, my
brother, and I took an
early evening train for the
Mannerchor. A faint breeze
was blowing over the fields
to the piazza of the old farm-
house where my family sat
fanning and rocking them-
selves in the fading light.
But there was not a breath
of air to cool the stifling
Ninth and Green street sta-
tion, not a breath to stir in the trees of the near
garden. Glaring gas-jets parched the leaves
on the lowest branches, and threw hot reflec-
tions on the tiny grass-plots between the nar-
row gravel walks and on the plants in tubs,
which strove with pathetic failure to imitate
the real country, as I then thought; but which
now seem to me a very fair copy of the beer-
gardens of the Fatherland.
When Ned and I first passed through the
turnstile no one as yet sat at the little tables
ranged in order under the trees; no one was
in the great shell-shaped band-stand at the far
end, where lights blazed brightest and hottest.
It was not much more than half-past seven;
the gipsy concert did not begin until eight.
The waiters, idling where shadows made
the garden least hot, looked at us, the first
comers, with lazy curiosity as we walked over
to a table close to the music-stand. Presently
two or three dark men lounged out from the
house. They wore no sheepskin caps or silver
buttons, their hair was uncurled, but I knew
them. They were darker, swarthier than Seth
Lovell or Davy Wharton, and I saw the gipsy
in their eyes and in their every feature.
The hands of the clock over the door pointed
to ten minutes to eight; the waiters had roused
themselves at last, and were rushing past us
with glasses of beer; the German patrons of
the garden were fast filling the chairs around
the little tables. Then some one brought a big
bass viol and turned up the lights still higher
in the stand. There was no time to lose. Had
not the Rye, had not every book I had read
about them, told me that half the pleasure in
the music of the Hungarian gipsies was in their
playing for you alone, into the ear, as the
saying is? And I was eager that on this, their
first night in Philadelphia, their music should
be for me; they must know me as a gipsy sister
and not as a mere stranger, like the Germans
who were already busy with their pipes and
beer.
Do go and speak to them, I said to Ned.
The next minute he was addressing them
politely in his most fluent Ollendorf: I wish
with the gipsies to speak.
But they shook their heads, smiled, and
shrugged their shoulders. He took one by the
hand, and drew him to where I sat. The others
followed.
Rcikessa /u Romdnis ? (which is good
gipsy for Do you speak Romany ? ) I asked
breathlessly.
They looked puzzled; they half understood,
but though the words had a familiar sound,
they could not quite make them out. When
they spoke, it was the same with me. Three
or four others of the dark-faced men sauntered
up and surrounded us. Five minutes to eight:
what was to be done?
Ji?akessa Iii Rorndnis? I repeated in de-
spair.
They were now as eager as I. Suddenly a
youth, with wild eyes and wilder hair, raised
his left hand close to my face, and, with his
right, pointed to each finger in turn. Was it
inspiration? Yeck, diii, trun ( One, two,
three), I began.
It was enough. A dozen hands were
stretched out to shake mine. White teeth glis-
tened, dark eyes flashed. Torrents of unintel-
ligible welcome were poured upon me. Yes:
this was far better than the gossip in Oakdale
Park,,than the afternoon greeting by Camden
Reservoir.
But it was time for them to go. First they
led me to the table that faced the band-stand,
while the Germans under the pear-trees stared,
and even the waiters stopped with their trays
to look in puzzled amazement. In the hot
glare of the gas-lights the gipsie~ took their
seats and lifted their violins. The leader
stood in front, with bow raised. He looked to
me and bowed; the eyes of all his musicians
were fixed upon my face.
It began. I did not know then, as I do now,
that it was a Cz6rd~sThey played. I only felt
felt the fierce passion and unutterable sadness,
the love and rage in the voice of violin and
cymbal. In it was all the gipsy beauty, all the
gipsy madness, I had ever dreamed, and more.
And the music swept through me until I lived
again whatever sorrow and gladness had come
into my life. It is easier to let ones self go
when one is young, when one has ones own
romance to kindle the blood and to warm the
heart. All around me stolid Germans were
drinking beer; occasional groups of young men
from the sacred quarter, with the consciousness
of evil in their smiles, were sucking sherry-cob-
blers and mint-juleps through long straws;
glasses rattled, and now and then the bells of
passing horse-cars jingled in the street beyond.
But what matter? There was the starlit sky
above, the trees hid the near houses, the dingy 112 TO GIPSYLAND.
beer-garden was glorified by music divine and
passionate, which was all for me alone. Is it
any wonder that I lost my head a little as I
sat there in the warm summer night, with the
wail and rapture of the Cz~rdfis sweet in my
ears?
And yet it was only the ordinary band that
one hears in every town of Hungary: a pair of
cymbals, a flageolet, half a dozen violins, a bass
viol, and a cello. They played without notes,
and the leader, really the first violin, now faced
his audience, now turned to his musicians, first
to one, then to the other, sometimes merely
swaying his body, again fairly dancing in
time.
When the gipsies left the band-stand they
came to where I sat, while all the Germans
stared the harder. The players saw the pleasure
in my eyes, and they were glad. I could talk
fast enough with the English gipsies; as well as
they could I make my jest at the gorgiothe
silly Gentilestanding by. But now I learned
to my cost that the Hungarian Romany has a
fair show of grammar and construction, while
my English friends had none. But every Ro-
many word I said was hailed with joy, and
was a new bond of friendship. To table and
chair, to violin and tree, they pointed: its Ro-
many name, as I said it, was an open sesame to
their hearts. Then one spoke atrocious French;.
another better German. It was the youth with
the wild eyes and hair who knew the language
hated of the Hungarian, and, because of the
strength of his desire to talk with me, he un-
derstood my halting phrases.
Did they take me for a Romany? I think
not. The gipsy knows his people too well.
There is in him a mystery never yet fathomed
by the gorgio. He, like the freemasons, has a
mystic sign by which he recognizes his own.
But, sensitive as they are, quick to feel, they
felt that I was their friend. The leader, as if
to give me formal recognition, brought his
wife, who was traveling with him, to sit at
my side; and then with the grace which is
half the gipsys charm, and after the pleasant
custom of Hungary,like the music, it was
new to me then; I understand it better now,
he sent for beer, and, standing about my table,
they clinked glasses with me and with Ned,
and solemnly pledged their friendship and
good-fellowship. And now, how the Germans
stared!
The gipsy music was an uncertain experi-
ment in Philadelphia, where life is ordered in
straight lines like the streets. To avoid failure
that first evening, Karl Sentzs orchestra came
and took their places in the band-stand after
the first interval. The gipsies stayed with me
while ordinary waltzes and overtures were
played in the ordinary way, and the Germans
placidly puffed at their pipes and drank their
beer. As Levy blew himself red in the face
over his cornet, the youth with the wild eyes
and hairRudi, he told me his name was
leaned close to my chair and whispered in
slow German: They play from notes, these
men; but we we play fr9m our hearts! This
is the difference, for the gipsy is not the wan-
derer, that hath no hope, of the Roumanian
ballad, singing
Without a heart to suffer what he sings.
He has a heart when he plays; that is why,
if you too have one, it beats in answer.
Well, they played again, and again it was
for me alone. One Cz~rdits after another filled
this quiet Philadelphia corner with unaccus-
tomed tears and laughter woven into sweet,
strange sounds. The longer they played, the
more intense was their joy in it: their black
eyes glowed, their cheeks were aflame; when
the frenzy seized them, they shouted with their
violins, and then their voices were hushed as
the sudden wild, low wail stilled their glad ec-
stasy. In the end they were as men drunk
with music. To their feet they sprang as they
fairly beat out of violins and cymbals the fierce,
stirring summons of the Rakotzy.
But scarce had the last note been struck
when Rudi, eyes like burning coals, was at my
side.
Come, he said, and he took my hand,
and we ran through the garden, Ned at my
heels,- the Germans dragging their heads out
of their mugs to look, through the bar,
through a passageway, to a long hall with a
roxv of closets on each side.
He left without a word. But in a second he
was dancing back, waving over his head a pair
of high boots, and, as if they were a Lenten offer-
ing, placed them at my feet. Again he was gone,
again he was pirouetting back, red breeches
flying aloft flagwise; a third time, and a blue
coat swung in the air and was lowered with
the tributes before me. Earlier in the evening,
remembering those beautiful wild creatures in
Chestnut street, and their silver buttons and
sheepskin caps, I had asked if he had no spe-
cial costume; this was the uniform which the
Hungarian gipsy always wears abroad, never at
home, except when he serves as conscript.
The others had followed fast behind, and
gathered close about me. The fever of the
Rakotzy was still in their faces, still coursed
through their veins. They shook my hand
again, they patted me on the shoulder, they
laughed aloud. And I laughed with them; my
hand went out to meet theirs in a warm, hearty
grasp as I said good night; for at Ninth and
Green a train waited, the last that night to
Chestnut Hill. But the wonder of the music TO GIPSYLAND. 3
stayed with me as the cars steamed out of Ninth
street, even while the men coming home from
their evening in town snored serenely in their
seats, and the conductor, who knew them all
only too well, rudely shook each in turn as his
station was reached; it lent a new loveliness
to the wide dew-drenched meadows, dim and
shadowy in the starlight, as I saw them now
from the window, to the silent, deserted lanes
of Chestnut Hill, when I walked back to the
old house and the garden, the cool air full of
the scent of honeysuckles and roses, and the
crickets still chanting. It was the gipsies who
had given this new, rare beauty to the sum-
mer night, and yet, as I lingered on the piazza
among the flowers, too excited to go to bed, it
was not of them I was dreaming!
This was but the beginning of a long sum-
mer of music and beauty. Week after week
the gipsies played in the Miinnerchor Garden,
and night after night I turned my back upon
Chestnut Hill, just as the afterglow began to
fade, and the first stars came out, and the wind
blew fresh and pure over the meadows, to go
in the hot cars to the hotter town, and then to
sit in the glare of many lights, breathing rank
tobacco-laden air among the beer-drinkers
in the little garden which was a paradise to
me once the gipsies played. Their concerts,
strangely enough, proved a success. There
was soon no need for Karl Sentzs orchestra to
divide the evening with them. All Philadel-
phia, from down-town, from up-town, from the
suburbs, came to crowd the Mannerchor. Per-
haps a few really cared; more likely lights and
movement and gaiety helped them to forget the
heat better than darkened parlors and lonely
porches. It was a chance. Another season,
another year, their violins might have sung,
tIieir cymbals been beaten,in vain. .But the sum-
mer was dull; they appeared at the right mo-
ment; they were made the fashion. Their blue
coats and red breeches were seen at many a
correct Germantown garden-party; proper
Young ladias strummed the Rakotzy on their
l)ianos; iarge parties from
Chestnut, \Valnut, Spruce, and Pine
spent the evening at the M~innerchor, and their
numbers saved their reputations.
But it was always for me the gipsies waited,
always for me they reserved the table facing
their stand, always for me their violins and cym-
bals sang. I met them no longer merely as the
gipsies. Each had his distinct individuality.
Of the half-dozen Sandors among them, there
was first the leader, handsome, graceful, but
growing too plump with Philadelphia prosper-
ity: at a months end his fine blue coat scarce
met over his portly stomach. And there was
Herr Joseg who played the cymbals, whose
fingers flashed with opals and diamonds, who
wore velvet xvhen the others went clad in cloth,
and who spoke a weird tongue he called French.
And Rudi I think I knew him best, he was so
enthusiastic in his friendship; he was never from
my side when he was not playing, and he was
learning an English that rivaled Herr Josefs
French: Goot eefnin! I lof you! ferry yell!
ow de do! was his stock in trade. Then
there was the large man who played the bass
viol, and who said nothing, but chuckled loud
when he patted me on the shoulder; he was
father of the little fellow, the pretty parody of
his elders in his red breeches and high boots.
Another, only a few years older, was as beautiful
as the youths in Del Sartos pictures: St. John
we called him. The cello-player never spoke to
me; a deep scar marked his cheek, and some-
times he would lean his face close to his cello
and whisper to it, and I thought there was mys-
tery in his silence. Near him sat a small man
with pathetic eyes, which seldom left my face,
but who was as shy as the flageolet-player was
fearless in his tender pantomime. And last the
thin, tall gipsy like a mulatto, who, one even-
ing, with much solemnity gave me his photo-
graph and a letter; for my answer he still waits.
It was in Hungarian; I could not read it; I
was afraid to try to find some one who could.
July. passed, and August came. At the Miin-
nerchor the gipsies had been engaged for one
month only. But Philadelphians had not yet
tired of them, and they went to the park to
play, to Belmont Mansion.
To Belmont I followed. It was further from
Chestnut Hill. But in the August afternoon it
was pleasant in the park, and on the river in
the little steamboat, starting just as shells and
skiffs and canoes were launched from the row
of pretty boat-houses on the banks. Some even-
ings Ned was with me; on others it was with
J (who already knew his way, as well as
I, to the tents of the Costelloes and the Whar-
tons) that I walked up the cool glen to Bel-
mont Hill. I liked to sit there as the evening
grew fresher, looking to where the river, in
shadow, went wandering toward the million
eyes of Philadelphias magnificent medioc-
rity blazing in the hot glare of the sunset.
People were dining in the mansion and on
the wide porch; others were drinking beer at
the little tables on the lawn; and when the sun
had set, and faint lights glimmered here and
there on the water below, or floated upward
on passing barge or boat, and bicycle-lamps
like fireflies flitted by in the valley, the gipsies
played.
Their music seemed more impassioned and
wilder here in the open night. The voice of
nature and freedom, what had it to do with
stuffy halls and close town gardens? 4 TO GIPSYLAND.
I consumed the deep green forest,
With all its songs:
And now the songs of the forest
All sing aloud in me.
All the storms and the sunshine through
which they and their fathers have wandered
sang aloud in the Cz~rdfts that now went wail-
ing and sighing, rejoicing and exulting, over
the hillside down the glen. They were con-
scious, I think, of the difference. Their vio-
lins grew more plaintive, fiercer. They could
scarce tear themselves from the music; again
and again when the last note was struck their
bows would sweep the strings anew, and the
cymbals beat a new summons, and they were
once more whirling in the dance, or weeping
their hearts away. There was magic now in
their playing to hold the most indifferent, to
wake tears and laughter at will.
They waited for me at Belmont as they had
in the Miinnerchor; they came and sat with me
during the short intervals; and sometimes we
walked homeward together through the dark,
silent park. We grew friendlier in those long
walks. It was the hour and the place for con-
fidence, and then they would talk of the broad
Hungarian plain and the wild Karpathian val-
leys they loved, of the vintage on the sunny
hillsides, and the dance in the white road. And
it was then, too, that Rudi first spoke of his
sweetheart in Hungary: Marie was her name.
He took her photograph from his pocket, San-
dor struck a match on his red breeches, and
I had a glimpse of a young face framed in great
masses of hair. The little flame flickered and
died. Marie! Marie! cried Rudi in the star-
light, and his voice was as sweet as his violin.
During another of these long walks Rudi said
they wanted me to come the next evening, when
they would play as they never had played be-
fore; I had not yet heard all their violins could
tell. They were going from Philadelphia in a
week now. Yes; it made them sad. Not for
many months could they turn their faces to-
ward the Hungarian plain, and Marie, and
the deep green forests. They must play
first in other American towns, and it would be
lonely for them when I was not near. Would
I come? Would I listen?
There was only one answer to make as we
walked together under the stars, with the last
passionate cry of the Cz~rd~s still ringing in
my ears. I was infatuated with the gipsies,
my friends told me in reproach. Perhaps I
was.
They went back to the Mannerchor for their
last week. It was near the shell-shaped band-
stand, in among the plants in tubs, where we had
first met, that they were waiting when J
and I passed through the turnstile. The leader,
with unwonted ceremony, stepped forward to
greet me and to lead the way to the table they
called mine. His wife was sitting there.
I knew them so well now that before they
spoke I was conscious of their state of unusual
excitement. When they spoke it was with
strangely boisterous gaiety; their eyes shone
with a new light; there was triumph in their
smiles. The little soft-eyed man for the first
time wished me Latcho rat/i, while Rudi,
speechless, danced about my chair. The gipsy
with the scar was as gay as were the others.
What did it mean? I cannot explain why I
was uneasy; I was not afraid, not distrustful.
And yet, instinctively, I wished that I had not
come. The evening would not pass as had the
many I had spent dreaming my own dreams,
my thoughts far away in other gardens, on
other hillsides, while I listened to their music:
of this I was sure before I had been with them
ten minutes. And when they played? Rudi
was right. Never before had I heard all that
violins and cymbals could tell.
Their music was entirely Hungarian. One
Cz6rdfts after another quickened into frenzy in
the warm, still night while the waiters rushed
in and out among the tables, and the Germans
drank deep and long from their beer-mugs. But
now the wail of sorrow was at once silenced by
a pivan of joy. They came to me again dur-
ing the first interval, and the Czftrdfts had not
quieted them. The leader sent for a bottle of
Hungarian wine. Was it that and not the mu-
sic which had gone to their heads? I stilled the
suspicion as disloyal even before it took defi-
nite shape. Indeed, had theirs been ordinary
intoxication it would have troubled me less.
There was something far more alarming in the
solemnitywith which the leader filled the glasses,
and all, clinking mine, drank to me in the wine
of their country, and cried aloud their Servus /
Viva! E/fiii!
I grew mere uneasy at these uncanny sounds,
which I have since learned are harmless. Even
as they drank, I determined to leave the gar-
den as soon as the gipsies returned to the band-
stand, and not to wait for the last friendly fare-
well after the Rakotzy had beaten a dismissal.
Again they played a Czftrd~s, all fire and pas-
sion.
But I rose to go. Without seeing, I knew
that their eyes followed my every movement.
La/cizo rat/i! I said to the leaders wife, who
could speak only Hungarian.
Sitting with her were two fellow-countrymen,
not gipsies, whom she had met for the first time
that night. She was talking with them, and at
my good night turned in surprise. She took
both my hands, and forced me into my chair.
I told her in English, though I knew she
could not understand, that I must catch atrain, that I could not wait. And I struggled
to get up. She protested almost with tears.
She held my hands tight, she looked to San-
dor, she half rose, hesitated, and then sud-
denly spoke to the Hungarians at her side,
while all the while the gipsies watched, and
played a remonstrance. One of the Hun-
garians lifted his hat. She begs you not to
go, he said.
Tell her, please, that I have a train to
catch.
There was despair in her face, and she clung
to my hands. Again he translated: She says
Sandor has something of importance to talk
to you about. You cannot go.
But I must! I must! I cried. The more
she insisted, the more eager was I to be gone
not to hear that something Sandor had to
say. I could not draw my hands from hers,
and again she spoke to her interpreter, fast
and earnestly, never once looking from me.
There was a twinkle in his eye, but he said,
gravely and respectfully:
Madam, she implores that you stay. San-
dor to-night will ask for your hand in marriage
for his brother. He is wealthy. He plays well.
He will take you to many lands, to his beauti-
ful Hungary. You will be rich; you will have
the gipsy music with you always.
This, then, was what it meant. I had been
living my own romance in their music; they
had been making one for me.
It s impossible, I said. I must catch
my train. It s all a dreadful mistake. I can-
not stay another minute. I m so sorry!
And I wrenched my hands from hers. With-
out a look at the band-stand, though I felt all
their eyes upon me, and trembled at the mad-
ness of the Cz~rd6s, I fled from the garden
~tnd the gipsies to Ninth and Green streets,
through the station, into the cars. The train
had not started before I regretted my flight.
Was ever yet womans curiosity put to so cruel
a test? I had a lover .among the gipsies:
so much I knew. But which one of these
swarthy men was Sandors brother, and, in-
deed, which Sandor was it who had a brother?
Rudi loved the dark-eyed Marie in his Kar-
pathian home, but, then, one or two more wives
to a Hungarian gipsy would be no great mat-
ter. Herr Josef, with the flashing opals and
the velvet coat, see med the Crcesus of the
band. Was it he whom I had refused with
such reckless incoherence? Or was it the big
bass-viol player who wanted a new mother
for his boy? Or the flageolet-player the full
tenderness of whose pantomime I had not
grasped? Or that soft-eyed, shy creature? Or
the mysterious one with the scarred cheek?
I could not go back and ask. Never now would
I know the lover with whom I might have
5
wandered from land to land, at whose side,
under the starlit skies of Hungary, I might for-
ever have listened to the gipsy music.
iii.
NATURALLY, from
that day forward I
was full of a longing
for Hungary. Within
aweek the gipsies had
gone to a far Western
city; the Miinnerchor
was left once more
to up-townGermans;
and nobody who was
~{ anybody was will-
inglyseenthereagain.
But even if the young lady across the turnpike
had not strummed the Racotzy on her piano
from morning till night, I could not easily have
got the gipsies out of my head.
Who has not been foolish once, and the bet-
ter for his folly? I began to dream of Hun-
gary as a sort of earthly paradise, where the
real gipsy, with long, black hair curling to his
shoulder, and silver buttons on his coat, wan-
dered, violin in hand, through the cool wood
and over the vine-clad hillside, or sometimes
into the towns, above all to Budapest, which,
in my fancy, was an enchanted city of the
East, with domes and minarets, with marble
terraces and moonlit waters a Venetian
Cairo on the Ganges. It was a trifle romantic
and silly, I admit. But in our time we have
all, like Stevensons lantern-bearers, carried
our farthing dip, and exulted as if it were a ten-
thousand-candle-power electric light.
Not at once did my chance come to journey
in search of this real gipsy to the land where
my unknown lover so gladly would have taken
me. He and his brother Sandor returned no
more to Philadelphia The next winter another
gipsy band gave a few concerts in town and
in the suburbs. They had passed through
Boston, however, and there was culture in
their Cz~rdiis; besides, they played on the
stage in the Academy of Music, while I sat,
one of many, in the parquet, and the music
was r~ot for me.
Soon after this J went abroad.
One day from him came a letter telling me
how in Paris he had gone to the Eden Thea-
ter, and there in the foyer he had heard that
low, sweet wailing to which together we had
listened many a summer night at the Miinner-
chor, and had seen the Romany faces, the red
breeches, and the blue coats. They were very
like our friends, and, for the sake of old times,
he had gone up and said, La/ciw divvus
Prali! and they had kissed him, and wel
TO GIPSYLAND.x i6 TO G/PSYLAND.
corned him as a brother, and played for him
alone, played until he once more saw the lights
blazing in the shell-shaped band-stand, and
heard the cry of zwei bier under the wither-
ing trees, and the jangling of the street-car
bells up Eighth street. It made me homesick,
as I read, for the Hungary I had never seen.
Another year, and J and I had joined
fortunes, and were abroad together. We had
been in London only a few days, and its roar
like the roar of the loom of time, as Lowell
once saidstill fell loud and strange on our
ears. I remember it was Sunday afternoon:
we had been to the Langham to see the Rye,
and were walking down Regent street, where
I wondered at the great, heavy shutters in
front of the store windows, so old-fashioned
after our Chestnut street stores, which make as
gay a display on the first as on any other day
of the week, and still more at the girls, on this
pleasant July day, with big fur capes over their
lawn dresses, and at the soldiers, with the funny
little caps stuck on one side of their heads, and
at the policemen, who surely belonged by
rights to the Pirates of Penzance and Gil-
bert and Sullivan. We were staring at any
and every thing, as if London were a big show
got up for our benefit. And so, when, on the
ladder of a passing bus, a man suddenly ap-
peared, wildly waving his arms in our direction,,
we walked slower to see what new thing would
happen now. One or two other people stopped.
The man flew down the ladder, tumbled off
the last two steps, and started to run. The
conductor dashed after him: he had not paid.
He fumbled in his pocket with one hand, the
other he waved toward us. More people lin-
gered, and in a minute there was quite a crowd.
At last he found his penny, and then with a
bound he was at our side, both hands out-
stretched. It was Herr Josef Herr Josef,
smiling and laughing and crying, opals and
diamonds flashing on his fingers, talking now
his old, bad French, now his new, worse Eng-
lish. We all three walked down the street;
before we parted he promised to come to us
at our hotel, and we gave him our card. Of
course he never appeared; which, perhaps,
was fortunate, for if he had I do not know what
we should have done with him. From that
day to this we have not laid eyes on Herr
Josef, who played the cymbal so well, and who
may have been my lover.
Another evening while London was still our
wonderland, J and I had been dining in a
shabby foreign restaurant in Leicester Square,
the name of which I have forgotten, with a
French actress studying her lines, and an oily
Jew staring out of the window, through which
we could see the statue of Shakspere in the little
green space, and the women and children whom
the most famous dynamiter in fiction wanted
to blow up. The dinner was bad, and we left
the place cross and still hungry. Close by the
door a small dark man in red breeches and
blue coat came sauntering quietly round the
corner, but at sight of us he gave a sudden
war-whoop of joy, seized J s embarrassed
hands, and kissed him again and again. He
was one of the gipsies from the Eden Theater,
and his ecstasy soon drew a large and not over-
reputable crowd. Two policemen bore down
upon it, and in the confusion we escaped.
But amusing as were these meetings, my real
gipsy was not to be found in London streets.
I was no nearer to him in England than I
had been at home. Sometimes I seemed fur-
ther away, for here the poor Romany had been
exploited, and traveling up and down the roads
in fine vans with valets in attendance were
gentlemen gipsies save the mark! As if
every gipsy was not a gentleman; as if any
gentleman could hope to be a gipsy. It was
no better when with the Rye I went to see the
Romany at Epsom on Derby Day, orto Hamp-
ton for the Costermongers Race. How they
all begged, these English Coopers and Stan-
leys, Boswells and Lovells! all save old Mat-
tie Cooper, with face as dark as Herr Josefs or
Rudis, and eyes as wild. He asked for no-
thing, but, the day I met him in the soft Eng-
lish sunshine by Thamess side, gave me a
great bunch of sweet carnations with the bow
of a prince. But there is only one Mattie
Cooper in England.
As the years passed, now and then we lis-
tened to Hungarian Romanies at London gar-
den-parties or receptions, where, among the
people enjoying themselves in the solemn Brit-
ish way, they seemed like the bird of their song
caged, the deer brought to bay. We came
across them at the Paris Exhibition of 1889,
but what charm was there in music played to
the Cooks tourists sweltering in the heat of
the Champ de Mars, covered with its gray
dust?
At last, suddenly and unexpectedly, as all
good things happen, we were called to Hungary.
The parks were green and gay in London, and
the may and laburnum were in bloom, when
we packed up everything in the little Westmin-
ster house, and gave the keys to the landlord:
once we had met my gipsy, who might say
when we would come back again? For the
time we too must be free as he to go and to
come.
iv.
ONE Sunday morning early, on the way to
Hungary, we wheeled our bicycles into Pirna,
the little Saxon town on the Elbe, for, as gip-
sies should, we were traveling by road. TheTO GIPS YLAND,
7
day was hright, church bells were ringing softly,
people were idling in the steep, sunny streets.
As we came into the great square, under the
heavy walls of the old town-hall, out upon the
summer air, drowning the church bells, stir-
ring the whole place into sudden life, beat the
first call of the Rakotzy. What if it were only
the town band playing there, men in top hats
and black coats, with none of the gipsy fire
in their Saxon faces? The Rakotzy was still
the music to hear when ones eyes were turned
toward gipsyland.
Not many days after we were in the Aus-
trian hills, near Jschl, climbing a high moun-
tain between endless pine forests. In the dense
woodland it was already twilight, and the air
had the freshness of night, though, when we
passed a clearing among the trees and looked
down, far below, a lake, lying there encircled
by hills, was warm and golden in the sunset.
And just here, the loveliest spot in all that wild
mountain-pass, two gipsy tents were pitched.
The Romany makes his camp where there is
most beauty by the wayside, as instinctively as
the bee flies to the sweetest blossom in a flower-
garden.
Latc/io divvus / we called as we passed.
Laic/zo divvus / came the quick answer,
VOL. XLV. i6.
and an old woman and a man sprang to their
feet. But we kept on, We had a long climb
before us, and it was getting uncomfortably
dark among the trees. Besides, would we not
pass the same camp every day in Hungary,
would we not in many sit and listen to cym-
bal and violin? Besides well, we did not
know these gipsies, and the night was black,
and we had not lost all our common sense
even if we were gipsy-hunting. They were the
first and last we met in Austria.
But a weok later we were in Hungary. It
was noon: we had come to the end of the
long s~reec, lined with white cottages, turning
their gable-ends to it, and with rows of well-
poles like masts along a quay, which, in the
single mornings ride from Pressburg, we had
learned to be the typical Hungarian village;
beyond, under a group of trees overshadowing
two quiet pools, of course the prettiest. green-
est, shadiest oasis in the uninteresting stretch
of cultivated plain,we saw the first Hunga-
rian camp. Out from the tents rushed men
in the loose white drawers, or divided skirts
of the Hungarian peasant, women in ragged
petticoats and bare feet, boys and girls as
naked as God made them, funny little black
things on the dazzling white road. They
CAMPED OUT.ii8 TO GIPSYLAND.
seemed free enough to match their song
free, indeed, not only as the bird in the air,
but as the savage in desert or jungle. But
we had been pushing our bicycles for hours
through the sand-tracks which in lower Hun-
gary pass for highways, and we were too tired
to care who or what they were. We did not
speak, and the wretched things ran after us
begging, whines their only music.
By tbe time we got to Raab we were twice
as tired. Our supper eaten. we went at once to
bed, without a look at the town, without ask-
A BRAUTY, YRT A BROOAR.
ing whether in it were the gipsies we had come
all the way from London to meet. We caught
a glimpse of the familiar red breeches and blue
coat in front of the hotel, but they were worn
by the soldierly driver of a carriage with a
coronet on the door. He might have been the
one and only gipsy left in Hungary, and he
could not have kept us on our feet another
minute. But as we were falling into our first
sleep, a sweet wail broke upon the nights still-
nessa wail we knew and loved, and it rose
and fell, now low, now loud, and louder, until
it burst into the full frenzy of the Czfirdfis.
Gipsies were playing somewhere below, and
they played there for hours, while we listened
in the darkness, half sleeping, half waking,
thinking of the old evenings in the Manner-
chor long ago, of the beautiful evenings that
were to come. And I liked it so best on our
first night in Hungary; to hear without seeing
them, as if we still dreamed, and yet to know
all the time that we were really in gipsyland.
We gave up the fight with the sand the next
day, and took the boat at Gran, the Rome of
Hungary, with the sham St. Peters on the hill-
top, and we steamed all afternoon down the
Danube, which is blue only in Strausss waltz,
between low hills, past long rafts steered by
strange creatures in loose white, with wild hair
hanging to their shoulders from under broad-
brimmed black hats. As we sat under the
awning of the upper deck, the opening wail of
a Cz~rdiis startled us; it was a weak, shaky,
CURIOSITY ON BOTH SLURS.
/4
y~ 1O GIPSYLAND. I 19
puny little wail from the violin of a tiny gipsy
boy perched atop a pile of boxes on the
lower deck, where he was surrounded by a
crowd of those strange creatures in white, who
wrapped themselves in shaggy sheepskins as
the evening grew cooler. He fiddled away
while the sun fell below the western hills, while
the grayness of twilight stole over the river,
while one by one lamps were lighted on the
shadowy banks, until, in a blaze of light, I3uda-
pest came out of the darkness. It seemed, now
that we were in gipsyland, that we were always
making excuses not to speak to the Romany.
But we knew the scene that would follow if
we went down and talked to the child, and
still we bided our time, And then, he too
was begging for kreutzers.
Five minutes after we had heard the last
sweep of the lads bow over the strings of his vio-
lin, a burst of the same music, but strong and
steady and loud, greeted us as we came to the
Hotel Hungaria. The river flowed below the
windows of the room into which we were
shown. When we leaned out, we could see
the brilliant embankment, the Corso they
call it, with the chairs under the trees, and
the people eating ices. It needed but an illu-
minated barge, like those which float on Vene-
tian waters, but the twang of a lute, the beat
of cymbals, out there in the summer night,
and we should have been in that Cairene
Venice on the Ganges, that town of Oriental
splendor and ceaseless music, which was the
OFF TO THE FIELDS.
A VAGABOND.
Budapest of our imagining. But the gipsies
were in the dining-room, which we found
for we went down-stairs almost at oncewas
the court covered in by a glass roof, but, with
its shrubbery and flowers, looking like a gar-
denand a garden on a feast-day, so many
were the colored lights among the leaves, so
gay the blue and gold of the Hungarian offi-
cers, so elaborate the dress of the full-blown
Hungarian beauties. - At the end of the room,
opposite the door, in a bower of palms and
oleanders, were the gipsies,
correct and commonplace in
stiff linen and black coats, the
leader, with his violin, facing
the audience, and grinning as
if in bored resignation.
Every table in the large
court was crowded, but behind
the musicians ran a slightly
raised gallery where there were
fewer people. Here, between
the palms, we could watch the
musicians sitting around the
cymbals in their bower. They
stopped playing as we took
our places ; the leader turned,
they all drew close together as
from underneath a table he
brought out a plate piled high
with gulden notes and small
silver coins. Eagerly they bent
over as he counted the money
and laid it to one side. Then,
on the empty plate he put one
gulden notefifty centsas
a decoy, and, stepping down,
passed from table to table,
smiling and bowing, actually 120 TO GIPSYLANIL
begging! The real gipsy, who calls no man
master, who plays only for his own delight,
begging in the boro kelc/lerna of the gorgio /
He came to us in our turn, when, instead of
a rapturous Romany greeting, we gave him
a twenty-kreutzer piece. I almost wished he
would throw it back in our faces: but he did
not; he bowed and smiled superciliously as the
coin fell silently on the pile of notes.
The collection over, they played again; but
there was no magic in music bought for a few
kreutzers. It was dull and lifeless. A party of
unmistakable English tourists came into the
room, and in a second they had struck up
God save the Queen, quickly turned into a
combination of Yankee Doodle and the
Star-Spangled Banner, to make quite sure.
This completed our disenchantment.
But for the next week or two we went
through a steady process of disenchantment.
ing when the sun shone on the hills of Buda, and
glorified even the long yellow wall and green
shutters of the royal palace that was so much
more like an Atlantic City or Cape May hotel;
a marvel of color when the same hills were
black against the sunset. And there was a sug-
gestion of the East in the dark, half-naked men
in long white tunics or wide drawers, or scarce
more than a cloth about their loins, who un-
loaded the barges in sight of the elegant idlers
drinking coffee on the Corso. And we found
the East again further down the embankment,
where market-women in gay dresses sat by
their piles of melons and peaches, pfrikas and
tomatoes, under the big umbrellas which the
progressive Hungarian is eager to change for
one unbroken roof; and by the riverside, where
were always the fishermens boats with the high
Greek prow and the gaudy Christ or saint on
the gilded cabin door.
Our Budapest of the marble terraces and Once we went from the river, we might have
Oriental dirt seemed a very Chicago or Denver been in our own far Western towns instead of
of the yusz/as, a brand-new town with boule- in the capital of Attilas land; except when in
yards and electric street-cars, and the sanitary broad daylight barefooted, short-skirted peas-
engineering and other things which won the ant girls danced the Czfrd~s on the steps of a
praise of Dr. Albert Shaw. It was well enough railway-station; except at night when the watch-
so long as we stayed by the river: from our man, in sheepskins, his halberd over his shoul-
windows we always looked at a beautiful pic- ders, made his rounds. But the newness of the
ture, a nocturne in blue and gold when the place itself was aggressive. Not an old build-
lamps were lighted; dazzling in the early morn- ing anywhere, but a church done up to look as
GETTING DINNER. TO ROSE TERRY COOKE. 121
new as the rest, a real Turkish bath restored
and working, and a tomb of some old sheik,
to which we never went. Why should we? In
this modern city we knew it would be as im-
pressive as the obelisk in Central Park.
And the people were in keeping with their
town. The menwere tailor-made from London,
the women, well-dressed Parisiennes trans-
ported from the banks of the Seine to the Dan-
ube. If the wild Hun had been tamed until
all character had gone from him, it was no
wonder that the fire had died from the Rom-
anys music, that his violin had lost something
of its power and charm.
For though we heard the gipsies again at
the Hungaria, and at every other hotel where
they played, at the big Caf6 de lOp6ra in the
Andrassy-strasse, and at the smaller restaurants
where, on Sunday evenings, artisans and sol-
diers grew noisy over their half liter, always
they seemed spiritless and subdued. There was
no difference except that at the cafe and the
cheap restaurants, when the leader made his
rounds, his plate was filled with coppers.
We thought perhaps it was playing indoors
that oppressed them, playing in close caf& and
hotel courts when half Budapest was drinking
coffee in flower-scented gardens and on the
oleander-shaded pavement, or eating suppers
in the middle of the street, and on the side-
walks where at every table candles spluttered
and sparkled in the darkness. Not even in
France or Italy do people live more in the
open air than in Hungary. And so, when the
friends we made in Budapest told us that
gipsies played at the Margaretheninsel, the
island in the Danube which the Archduke
J osef its owner, has turned into a public park,
we took the little steamboat late one hot Sep-
tember day, and steamed up against the cur-
rent under the suspension bridge, past the huge
pile of the new Parliament buildings, past the
gay Kaiser Bad, with its brazen German band,
to the pretty green island. Till twilight we
walked along the trim, well-kept paths and by
the sweet flower-garden, its roses still in bbs-
som, and by the ruins of an old nunnery, to
the restaurant at the upper end. There are
baths here, as there are at every turn in Buda-
pest and all Hungary, and hotels where people
come for the summer, and the crowd was the
same one sees at the sea-shore or in the moun-
tains anywhere. The gipsies were already in
the band-stand: among them were several who
looked like Jews, and it seemed to us that the
plate was passed oftener than at the Hungaria
or the Cafe de lOp~ra.
(To be continued.)
Elizabeth Robins Pennell.
TO ROSE TERRY COOKE.
rS this (you asked) the recompense of art?
lAnd will the work, alas! that I have done
Out of the overflowing, eager heart,
Be like these frost-flowers in the melting
sun?
Will all the little songs that I have wrought
In love and hope, as swiftly come to naught?
Nayfor to other hearts as well as mine,
O poet-spirit, fine, and pure, and strong,
To us unknown who loved and made no sign,
I)ear has the singer been for the true song:
It lives in souls uplifted, comforted,
While you are what our ignorant speech calls
dead.
Mary Bradley.
A FINE TYPE.

Mary BradleyBradley, MaryTo Rose Terry Cooke121-122

TO ROSE TERRY COOKE. 121
new as the rest, a real Turkish bath restored
and working, and a tomb of some old sheik,
to which we never went. Why should we? In
this modern city we knew it would be as im-
pressive as the obelisk in Central Park.
And the people were in keeping with their
town. The menwere tailor-made from London,
the women, well-dressed Parisiennes trans-
ported from the banks of the Seine to the Dan-
ube. If the wild Hun had been tamed until
all character had gone from him, it was no
wonder that the fire had died from the Rom-
anys music, that his violin had lost something
of its power and charm.
For though we heard the gipsies again at
the Hungaria, and at every other hotel where
they played, at the big Caf6 de lOp6ra in the
Andrassy-strasse, and at the smaller restaurants
where, on Sunday evenings, artisans and sol-
diers grew noisy over their half liter, always
they seemed spiritless and subdued. There was
no difference except that at the cafe and the
cheap restaurants, when the leader made his
rounds, his plate was filled with coppers.
We thought perhaps it was playing indoors
that oppressed them, playing in close caf& and
hotel courts when half Budapest was drinking
coffee in flower-scented gardens and on the
oleander-shaded pavement, or eating suppers
in the middle of the street, and on the side-
walks where at every table candles spluttered
and sparkled in the darkness. Not even in
France or Italy do people live more in the
open air than in Hungary. And so, when the
friends we made in Budapest told us that
gipsies played at the Margaretheninsel, the
island in the Danube which the Archduke
J osef its owner, has turned into a public park,
we took the little steamboat late one hot Sep-
tember day, and steamed up against the cur-
rent under the suspension bridge, past the huge
pile of the new Parliament buildings, past the
gay Kaiser Bad, with its brazen German band,
to the pretty green island. Till twilight we
walked along the trim, well-kept paths and by
the sweet flower-garden, its roses still in bbs-
som, and by the ruins of an old nunnery, to
the restaurant at the upper end. There are
baths here, as there are at every turn in Buda-
pest and all Hungary, and hotels where people
come for the summer, and the crowd was the
same one sees at the sea-shore or in the moun-
tains anywhere. The gipsies were already in
the band-stand: among them were several who
looked like Jews, and it seemed to us that the
plate was passed oftener than at the Hungaria
or the Cafe de lOp~ra.
(To be continued.)
Elizabeth Robins Pennell.
TO ROSE TERRY COOKE.
rS this (you asked) the recompense of art?
lAnd will the work, alas! that I have done
Out of the overflowing, eager heart,
Be like these frost-flowers in the melting
sun?
Will all the little songs that I have wrought
In love and hope, as swiftly come to naught?
Nayfor to other hearts as well as mine,
O poet-spirit, fine, and pure, and strong,
To us unknown who loved and made no sign,
I)ear has the singer been for the true song:
It lives in souls uplifted, comforted,
While you are what our ignorant speech calls
dead.
Mary Bradley.
A FINE TYPE.AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTES BY THE COMPOSER
MASSENET.
You are so kind as to write to know what
was the beginning of my musical career,
and you ask me, How did I become a musi-
cian? This seems a very natural question,but
nevertheless I find it very awkward one to an-
swer. Should I tell you that, like many of my
brothers in ~rt, I had followed my vocation,
I might seem slightly conceited; and should I
confess it caused me many a struggle to devote
myself entirely to music, then you might have
the right to say, Why, then, did you become a
musician?
My father was a superior officer under the
First Empire. When tbe Bourbo~ s were re
stored he sent in his resignation. As he had been
a distinguished pupil of the Polytechnic School,
he devoted himself to manufactures, and started
important iron-works near St. Etienne (Loire).
He thus became an iron-master, and was the
inventor of those huge hammers which, crush-
ing steel with extraordinary power by a single
blow, change bars of metal into sickles and
scythes. So it was that, to the sound of heavy
hammers of brass, as the ancient poet says, I
was born.
My first steps in my future career were no
more melodious. Six years later, my family then
living in Paris, one day I found myself in front
de. idgi~ue~
C
JULES ~MILE FR1iD~RIC MASSENET. (1865.)

J. MassenetMassenet, J.Massenet - Autobiographical Notes122-126

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTES BY THE COMPOSER
MASSENET.
You are so kind as to write to know what
was the beginning of my musical career,
and you ask me, How did I become a musi-
cian? This seems a very natural question,but
nevertheless I find it very awkward one to an-
swer. Should I tell you that, like many of my
brothers in ~rt, I had followed my vocation,
I might seem slightly conceited; and should I
confess it caused me many a struggle to devote
myself entirely to music, then you might have
the right to say, Why, then, did you become a
musician?
My father was a superior officer under the
First Empire. When tbe Bourbo~ s were re
stored he sent in his resignation. As he had been
a distinguished pupil of the Polytechnic School,
he devoted himself to manufactures, and started
important iron-works near St. Etienne (Loire).
He thus became an iron-master, and was the
inventor of those huge hammers which, crush-
ing steel with extraordinary power by a single
blow, change bars of metal into sickles and
scythes. So it was that, to the sound of heavy
hammers of brass, as the ancient poet says, I
was born.
My first steps in my future career were no
more melodious. Six years later, my family then
living in Paris, one day I found myself in front
de. idgi~ue~
C
JULES ~MILE FR1iD~RIC MASSENET. (1865.)A UTOBIOGRAP/7IICAL NO TES BY THE COMPOSER MASSENET. 123
of an old piano, and either to amuse me, or to
try my talent, my mother gave me my first mu-
sic-lesson. It was the 24th of February, 1848,
a strangely chosen moment, for our lesson was
interrupted by the noise of street-firing that
lasted for several hours. The revolution had
burst forth, and people were killing one another
in the streets.
Three years later I had become or my par-
ents affectionately thought I had becomea
clever enough little pianist. I was presented
for admission to the piano classes at the Impe-
rial Conservatory of Music, and was admitted.
To my mother I now was an artist, and even
though my education took up six hours of my
day, she found time to make me work at my
piano to such good effect that within a year I
became laur~at of the Conservatory. At this
l)eriod my fathers ill health forced us to leave
Paris, and so put a stop to my music for several
years. I took advantage of this period to finish
my literary studies. I3ut the pain of separation
from the Conservatory gave me courage enough
to beg my parents (whom my wish distressed)
to give me permission to return, and I did not
again leave Paris until the day when, having
obtained the first grand prize of musical com-
position (1863), I left for Rome with a scholar-
ship from the Acad~mie de France.
Did the progress made in these years of work
really prove my vocation? Certainly I had
won the prix de Rome, and had also taken
prizes for piano, counterpoint, fugue, and so on.
No doubt I was what is called a good pupil,
but I was not an artist in the true sense.
To be an artist is to be a poet; to be touched
by all the revelations of art and nature; to love,
to suffer ,in one word, to live! To produce a
work of art does not make an artist. First of
all, an artist must be touched by all the manifes-
tations of beauty, must be interpenetrated by
them, and know how to enjoy them. How many
great painters, how many illustrious musicians,
never xvere artists in the deepest meaning of
the word
Oh, those two lovely years in Rome at the
dear Villa Medici, the official abiding-place of
holders of Institute Scholarships unmatched
years, the recollection of which still vibrates in
my memory, and even now helps me to stem
the flood of discouraging influences!
It was at Rome that I began to live; there
it was that, during my happy walks with my
comrades, painters or sculptors, and in our talks
under the oaks of the Villa Porghese, or under
the pines of the Villa Pamphili, I felt my first
stirrings of admiration for nature and for art.
What charming hours we spent in wandering
through the museums of Naples and Florence!
What tender, thoughtful emotions we felt in the
dusky churches of Siena and Assisi! How thor-
oughly forgotten was Paris with her theaters
and her rushing crowds! Now I had ceased
to be merely a musician; now I was much
more than a musician. This ardor, this health-
ful fever still sustains me; for we musicians,
like poets, must be the interpreters of true emo-
tion. To feel, to make others feeltherein
lies the whole secret!
My time was nearly up at the Villa Medici,
and but a few days separated me from the hour
in which I had to say good-by to my happy
lifea life full of work, full of sweet tranquil-
lity of mind, a life such as I never have lived
again.
It was on December 17, 1865, that I had
to prepare for my departure; nevertheless, I
could not persuade myself to bid adieu to
Rome. It was Rome that bade me adieu, and
this is how she did it. It was six oclock in the
afternoon. I was alone in my room, standing
before the window, looking through the glass
at the great city outlined in gray against the
light still remaining from a lovely clear sunset.
This view is forever imprinted on my memory,
and at the time I could not detach myself from
it. Alas! little by little a shadow crept over
one corner of the sky, spreading and spreading
until finally Rome had disappeared altogether.
I have never forgotten those moments, and it is
in r,emembering them that I evoke my youth.
I NOTiCE that I am saying but little of mu-
sic, and that I seem to care more for what
strikes the eye than for what charms the ear.
Let us open together some of my orchestral
scores. Thereon I am in the habit of writing
the day and the hour, and sometimes an ac-
count of events of my life. Some of these have
afforded me suggestions for my work. The first
part of Mary Magdalene begins At the
gates of Magdala, evening. It was in truth
of Magdala that I was then thinking; my im-
agination journe}?ed to far Judea, but what
really moved me was the remembrance of the
Roman Campagna, and this remembrance it
was that I obeyed. I followed the landscape
I had really knoxvn; therein was its accent,
its exact impression. Afterward, in writing the
Erinnyes, the love that I felt for an exquisite
Tanagra terra-cotta dictated to me the dances
for the first act of Leconte de Lisles admirable
drama. Later, while I was arranging the score
of the Roi de Lahore, near me was a little
Indian box whose dark blue enamel spotted
with bright gold continually drew my eyes to
it. All my delight; all my ardor came from gaz-
ing at this casket, wherein I saw the whole of
India!
Mournful recollections also take up a great
part of the life of the musician whose mod-
est beginnings were saluted by firing in the124 A UTOBIOGI& IBHIGAL NOTES BY TEJ COAJEOSER il/LA SSEA7ETJ
streets. In 1870a dismal date for my poor
(lear country the Prussian cannons, answer-
ing those of Mont Yal~rien, often lugubriously
punctuated the fragments that I tried to write
(luring the short moments of rest that guard
duty, marching around Paris, and military exer-
cises on the ramparts, left us. There the musi-
cian, in the physical weariness of this novel life,
vainly trying to find a few moments of forgetful-
ness, did not altogether abdicate his rights. In
the leaves of a finished score, but one which
xviii never be l)rought before the l)ublic,
(luse, I lind annotated the patriotic cries of
the l)eople, and the echoes of the Marseillaise
sung by the regiments as they passed my little
house at lontaineblean on their way to bat-
tle. And so in other fragments I can read the
bitter thoughts that moved me when, having
returned to Paris before it was invested, I was
inspired by the woeful times that were upon us
(luring the long winter of that terrible year.
Oh, the unforgettable jlain and sorrow of
V
MASSENET IN HIS STUDY. (1890.)A UTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTES BY THE COMPOSER MASSENETJ 125
those dismal days when our hearts plunged so
quickly from comforting enthusiasm to the dark-
est despair! when weeks ofuncertainty and of
waiting were scarcely brightened by rare let-
ters received one knew not how or whence,
and bringing us news of ancient date concerning
the far-off families and the dear friends we no
longer hoped to see again! Then came the last
effort, the last struggle at Buzenval; the death
of my poor friend, the painter Henri Regnault;
then the most terrible trial of all, whose shame-
ful reality made us forget cold, hunger, all that
we had enduredthe armistice, which in our
wearied but far from resigned hearts rang the
knell of our last and righteous anger! Yes,truly,
during those dark days of the siege of Paris,
it was indeed the image of my dying country
that lay bleeding in me, feeble instrument that
I was, when, shivering with cold, my eyes
blinded with tears, I composed the bars of the
Po~me du Souvenir for the inspired stanzas
written by my friend the great poet Armand
Silvestre, Arise, belovdd, now entombed!
Yes, both as son and musician, I felt the image
of my poor country imprint itself on my bruised
heart in the sweet and touching shape of a
wounded muse, and when with the poet I sang,
Tear off thy winding sheet of flowers, 1 well
knew that, though buried, she would come forth
from her shroud, with blanched cheeks, indeed,
but lovelier and more adorable than ever!
I have already said how dear to me is, and
how faithfully true remains, the recollection of
my Roman years; and I would like to be able
to convince others how useful it is for young
musicians to leave Paris, and to live, were it
but for a year, in the Villa Medici, among a set
of intelligent comrades. Yes, I am thoroughly
in favor of this exile,as it is called by the dis-
contented. I believe in residing there, for such
a residence may give birth to poets and artists,
and may awaken sentiments that otherwise
might remain unknown to those in whom they
lie dormant.
But, you answer, genius cannot be given to
any one, and if these young men be merely
good students, already masters of their trade,
it is not possible to give them the sacred fire
thex- need.
Yes I believe that being forced to live far
away from their Parisian habits is a positive
advantage. The long hours of solitude in the
Roman Campagna, and those spent in the
admirable museums of Florence and Venice,
amply compensate for the absence of musical
meetings, of orchestral concerts, of theatrical
representations, in short, of music. How few
of these young men, before leaving France, ever
knew the useful and penetrating charm of living
alone in close communion with nature or art.
And the day in which art and nature speak to
VoL. XLV. 17.
you makes you an artist, an adept; and on
that day, with what you have already learned,
and with what you should already know, you
can create in strong and healthy fashion. How
many garnered impressions and emotions will
live again in works as yet unwritten!
In order to give more weight to my personal
opinions, let me have the pleasure of quoting
a fragment of the speech made at one of the
last prize-day distributions of the Acaddmie des
Beaux-Arts by my whilom comrade at Rome,
now my colleague at the Institute of France,
the celebrated engraver Chaplain:
During their stay at the Villa Medici, these
young artists are far from spending all the trea-
sure of thoughts and impressions which they there
amass. What delight, and often what rare good
luck, later to find a sketch made from some lovely
scene, or an air noted down while travelingthrough
the mountains! On the road from Tivoli to Su-
biaco, one summer day, a little band of students
were on a walking excursion through the beautiful
mountains, which, like an amphitheater, surround
and rise up around Rome. We had halted in or-
der to contemplate at our leisure the xvenderful
panorama of the Roman Campagna unrolling it-
self before us. Suddenly, at the foot of the path
we had just climbed, a shepherd began to play
a sweet, slow air on his pipe, the notes of which
faded away, one by one, in the silence of the
evening. While listening, I glanced at a musi-
cian who made one of the party, curious to read
his impressions in his face; he was putting down
the shepherds air in his note-book. Several years
later a new work by a young composer was per-
formed at Paris. The air of the shepherd of Su-
biaco had become the beautiful introduction to
Mary Magdalen.
I have quoted the whole, even the friendly
praise given me by my dear comrade of Rome;
but I have spoken so much of myself here that I
thought I need not refuse myself these compli-
ments coming from another in justification of
my enthusiasm forthose blessed years to which,
it seems to me, I owe all the good qualities
wherewith people are kind enough to credit me.
Do not, however, think me too exclusive in
my ideas. If I speak to you of Rome, it is be-
cause the Villa Medici is unique as a retreat,
is a dream realized. I have certainly been en-
thusiastic, over other countries, and I think that
scholars should travel. When I was a scholar,
I left Rome during many months. Two or three
friends would join forces and start off together.
We would go to Venice or down the Adriatic;
running over perhaps to Greece; and, on our
return, stopping at Tunis, Messina, and Naples.
Finally, with swelling hearts, we would see the
walls of Rome; for there, in the Academy of
France, was our home. And then, how delight-
ful to go to work in the healthful quiet, in which
we could create without anything to preoccupy126 DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS?
us with no worries, no sorrows. After a wan-
dering life, after the hotel with its common-
place rooms and table, what joy to return to
our villa and to meditate under its evergreen
oaks!
The ordinary traveler never can know this
repose, because it is to us alone, we scholars of
the Institute, that France gives such a shelter.
The remembrances of my youth have almost
always been my consolation for the years of
struggle that have made up my life. But I do
not thank France alone for being so good to us.
I wish to bring also to your country my tribute
of gratitude. It is to a woman of your great
country, to an American, to Miss Sibyl San-
derson, the incomparable interpreter of Es-
clarmonde, that I owe the impulse to write
that lyric drama.
I. Mdssenet.
DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS?
H E question may be
treated mainly as a
philosophical ques-
tion, in its bearings
upon science as well
I
as upon religion. Un-
~) happily, it has be-
come mixed with sev
eral side issues, which
should be detached
from it, and thrown out of the discussion. As it
is to be presented here, it will have nothing to do
with the current disputes in different churches,
or with the definition of any type of orthodoxy,-
or even with the formal vindication of Chris-
tianity itself. These are important issues in their
own time and place. But there is a larger, if
not higher, view of the main issue which they
involve, and which they may even hide from our
sight. All schools of philosophy, as well as all
churches and denominations, have a commofl
interest in inquiring whether the Bible can
yield us any real knowledge within the domain
of the various sciences. Indeed, all men every-
where will become practically concerned in
that inquiry, if the oldest and most highly
prized book in the world is now to be set aside as
a mixture of truth and error, obsolete in science,
if not also in morals and religion, and of little
further use in the progress of civilization.
The way to the question should be cleared
by several distinctions and admissions. Let us
first distinguish mere literary imperfections from
scientific errors, and frankly admit the existence
of the former in the inspired authors. They were
not trained rhetoricians, nor even practised
writers. They show the greatest variety of cul-
ture and of style. The rugged simplicity of the
Prophet is in contrast with the refined paral-
lelism of the Psalmist. The Evangelists did
not write pure Greek. It has been said, it
would be difficult to parse some of the sentences
of St. Paul. Many of the Old Testament meta-
phors seem gross to modern taste, and there are
certain didactic portions of Leviticus which
are too natural to be read in public worship.
Nevertheless, to reject the teaching of inspired
writers on such esthetic grounds would be
like denying the mathematics of the Princi-
pia because Newton wrote bad Latin, or re-
pudiating some medical classic as unfit for
the drawing-room. The literary blemishes of
Holy Scripture, as seen by fastidious critics,
do not touch its revealed content or divine
purport, but may even heighten it by the force
of contrast.
We may also distinguish and admit certain
historiographical defects in the inspired au-
thors. The prophets and evangelists were not
versed in the art of historiography, and did
not write history philosophically, nor even al-
ways chronologically. Their narratives have
many little seeming discrepancies as to dates,
places, names, and figures. The line of the
patriarchs is yet to be traced, amid conflicting
chronologies, with historical accuracy. Per-
sons and events do not always appear to syn-
chronize; as when it is stated in the Book of
the K~ings that Ahaziah was forty years old
on coming to the throne, and in the Chroni-
cles~~ that he was twenty-two years old. The
Evangelists Matthew, Mark, and Luke tell
the story of the crucifixion of Christ with dif-
fering motives and details, which have not yet
been fully harmonized. Such things are sim-
ply unavoidable in all historical composition.
At the present date of antiquarian research,
neither the dynasties of the Pharaohs, nor of
the Ciesars, nor even of the Popes, have
been clearly ascertained. No one can read
Bossuets Universal History, or even Ban-
crofts History of the United State~ with-
out losing himself in chronological puzzles.
The English historians Clarendon, Neal, and
Burnet narrate the execution of Charles I.
with substantial agreement, but from the most
varied dogmatic points of view. There are ob-
vious misprints in some editions of Hallams

126 DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS?
us with no worries, no sorrows. After a wan-
dering life, after the hotel with its common-
place rooms and table, what joy to return to
our villa and to meditate under its evergreen
oaks!
The ordinary traveler never can know this
repose, because it is to us alone, we scholars of
the Institute, that France gives such a shelter.
The remembrances of my youth have almost
always been my consolation for the years of
struggle that have made up my life. But I do
not thank France alone for being so good to us.
I wish to bring also to your country my tribute
of gratitude. It is to a woman of your great
country, to an American, to Miss Sibyl San-
derson, the incomparable interpreter of Es-
clarmonde, that I owe the impulse to write
that lyric drama.
I. Mdssenet.
DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS?
H E question may be
treated mainly as a
philosophical ques-
tion, in its bearings
upon science as well
I
as upon religion. Un-
~) happily, it has be-
come mixed with sev
eral side issues, which
should be detached
from it, and thrown out of the discussion. As it
is to be presented here, it will have nothing to do
with the current disputes in different churches,
or with the definition of any type of orthodoxy,-
or even with the formal vindication of Chris-
tianity itself. These are important issues in their
own time and place. But there is a larger, if
not higher, view of the main issue which they
involve, and which they may even hide from our
sight. All schools of philosophy, as well as all
churches and denominations, have a commofl
interest in inquiring whether the Bible can
yield us any real knowledge within the domain
of the various sciences. Indeed, all men every-
where will become practically concerned in
that inquiry, if the oldest and most highly
prized book in the world is now to be set aside as
a mixture of truth and error, obsolete in science,
if not also in morals and religion, and of little
further use in the progress of civilization.
The way to the question should be cleared
by several distinctions and admissions. Let us
first distinguish mere literary imperfections from
scientific errors, and frankly admit the existence
of the former in the inspired authors. They were
not trained rhetoricians, nor even practised
writers. They show the greatest variety of cul-
ture and of style. The rugged simplicity of the
Prophet is in contrast with the refined paral-
lelism of the Psalmist. The Evangelists did
not write pure Greek. It has been said, it
would be difficult to parse some of the sentences
of St. Paul. Many of the Old Testament meta-
phors seem gross to modern taste, and there are
certain didactic portions of Leviticus which
are too natural to be read in public worship.
Nevertheless, to reject the teaching of inspired
writers on such esthetic grounds would be
like denying the mathematics of the Princi-
pia because Newton wrote bad Latin, or re-
pudiating some medical classic as unfit for
the drawing-room. The literary blemishes of
Holy Scripture, as seen by fastidious critics,
do not touch its revealed content or divine
purport, but may even heighten it by the force
of contrast.
We may also distinguish and admit certain
historiographical defects in the inspired au-
thors. The prophets and evangelists were not
versed in the art of historiography, and did
not write history philosophically, nor even al-
ways chronologically. Their narratives have
many little seeming discrepancies as to dates,
places, names, and figures. The line of the
patriarchs is yet to be traced, amid conflicting
chronologies, with historical accuracy. Per-
sons and events do not always appear to syn-
chronize; as when it is stated in the Book of
the K~ings that Ahaziah was forty years old
on coming to the throne, and in the Chroni-
cles~~ that he was twenty-two years old. The
Evangelists Matthew, Mark, and Luke tell
the story of the crucifixion of Christ with dif-
fering motives and details, which have not yet
been fully harmonized. Such things are sim-
ply unavoidable in all historical composition.
At the present date of antiquarian research,
neither the dynasties of the Pharaohs, nor of
the Ciesars, nor even of the Popes, have
been clearly ascertained. No one can read
Bossuets Universal History, or even Ban-
crofts History of the United State~ with-
out losing himself in chronological puzzles.
The English historians Clarendon, Neal, and
Burnet narrate the execution of Charles I.
with substantial agreement, but from the most
varied dogmatic points of view. There are ob-
vious misprints in some editions of HallamsDOES TILE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS? 127
Constitutional History, which could not have
been in his manuscript. There may be trifling
mistakes in some English translations of Ne-
anders Church History which are not in
the German, as well as grave misconceptions
in some of his critics, which are neither in the
English nor in the German. In like manner,
as to any supposed inaccuracies in the Chron-
icles and the Gospels, the fair presumption
is, that they are not errors of the inspired text,
but mere errors of transcription, or errors of
translation, or errors of interpretation, or, sim-
ply, still unexplained difficulties. It is the
business of historical criticism to harmonize
standard historians, not to impeach them; and
thus far such criticism, as applied to the sacred
historians, instead of impugning the scientific
accuracy of Holy Scripture, has only confirmed
it by unexpected coincidences and ever-grow-
ing certitude.
We should still further distinguish some tra-
ditional glosses in the inspired writings. The
original autographs, and their first transcripts,
have long since been lost; and our existing
text of the Hebrew and the Greek must have
become corrupt through the negligence or de-
sign of copyists and editors. Even the vowel-
l)oints, accents, spaces, verses, and chapters,
which have been added as aids to the sense,
have also proved a source of faults and mis-
takes, especially in the numeral letters. The
book of Samuel is made to say that the
Lord smote fifty thousand men in a village of
less than five thousand inhabitants; and the
Chronicles seem to state that King Jehosa-
phat raised more than a million fighting men
out of a district not half as large as Rhode
Island. King David is said to have saved
more silver coin for the decoration of the tem-
ple than could then have been in circulation.
The Trinitarian proof-text, There are three
that bear record in heaven, seems to have
been interpolated in some late manuscripts for
a purpose. It is even alleged that there are
spurious claims of authorship in the titles and
contents of the sacred books. David,weknow,
did not write all the Psalms; and we are now
told that Moses did not write the Pentateuch,
nor Isaiah the whole book of Isaiah. In
short, the entire Bible gives internal evidence,
it is claimed, of anonymous fragments com-
piled by unknown hands. References are made
in it to lost documents, such as the books of
Jasher, Nathan, and Gad, the Wars
of Jehovah, and the Visions of Jddo. There
are two accounts of the creation, two versions
of the commandments, three distinct codes in
Exodus, Leviticus, and Deuteronomy,~~
besides any number of parallel, detached, and
repeated passages throughout the Scriptures,
suggesting to some critics a mere patchwork
of loose chronicles, proverbs, psalms, prophe-
cies, gospels, and epistles.
Certainly all these phenomena have been
common enough in secular literature. The
Greek and Latin classics, and even standard
English authors, are marred with textual cor-
ruptions, such as the loss or change of a word
or letter, or even part of a letter, sometimes
running a single number up into the thousands,
and sometimes reversing the meaning of a
whole sentence, or turning it into nonsense.
The text of Xenophon is full of them. The
Epistles of Cicero have them by the hun-
dred. The single play of Hamlet fills two
large octavos of the Variorum edition of Fur-
ness. There have also been some curious pseu-
dographs more or less innocent. The antique
manuscripts of Chatterton deceived the prac-
tised eye of Walpole. Literary critics of the
last century eagerly discussed the question
whether the poems of Ossian had not been
forged by their professed editor James McPher-
son. It was long a moot point, XVho wrote the
letters of Junius? Moreover, we have had
fine examples of literary compilation and re-
production without a taint of forgery or pla-
giarism. Froissarts Chronicles of Knights,
Kings, and Fair Women were personally col-
lected by him in France, England, Scotland,
and Spain, and inscribed upon illuminated
parchments, which are still extant. Bishop
Percy, the accomplished r~dacteur of the Rd-
iques of Ancient English Poetry, not only
recovered many manuscript ballads, but by
his skilful emendations of them adapted them
to modern taste and fancy. The materials of
Froissart and Percy were at length wrought,
by the masterly pen of Sir Walter Scott, into
poems and novels which are read wherever
the English tongue is spoken. And if Judge
Holmes or Mr. Ignatius Donnelly could prove
that Shakspere did not write Shakspere, but
only recast and ~trranged the tragedies, his-
tories, and comedies which bear his name, that
incomparable book, with all its archaisms, an-
achronisms, and solecisms, would remain the
masterpiece of genius that it is, and men might
still quote Shakspere, as John Randolph used
to say, to prove anything worth proving.
Perhaps also the Bible might be the Bible
still in its most essential import, although its
long-reputed authorship should now be dis-
credited. It may be conceivable that such a
Bible could have survived its own literary er-
rors as a trophy of the most devout scholar-
ship. But if quite conceivable, it is not yet
certain, nor very probable. The plain state-
ments of the inspired writers themselves, their
apparent indorsement by our Lord and his
apostles, and the consistent tradition of three
thousand years, still stand opposed to the con-128 DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS.?
jectures of learned criticism. And such con-
jectures are not sustained by all the literary
precedents and analogies. The title of a fa-
mous author, like Homer or Shakspere, repre-
sents the judgment of his nearest contempora-
ries and successors, and grows with the lapse
of time until it becomes too certain to be easily
set aside. Such claims for Moses and Isaiah
were not even questioned during more than
twenty centuries. It would seem rather late
now to overthrow all this external testimony
by mere internal criticism of their accepted
writings. Any traces of compilation in the
sacred books need conflict as little with their
received authorship as the like use of docu-
ments and fragments in acknowledged works
of genius. It is as easy to conceive that Moses
could compose or compile the Elohistic and
J ehovistic records of Genesis with their dif-
ferent names of God, as that Shakspere com-
posed or compiled both King Lear and
Richard III., though the former, quite con-
sistently, has only the pagan names of Jupiter,
while the latter is full of the Christian names
of our Lord. As yet, there is no more critical
demand for two Isaiahs in the Jsaian prophe-
cies than for a dozen Homers in the Homeric
Poems. In fact, the sacred writers are not half
as fragmentary and composite as well-known
English historians, poets, and philosophers.
Nor do marks of editorship always weaken the
genuineness and integrity of a standard trea-
tise. The postscript of Joshua at the close
of the Pentateuch conceming the death of
Moses may have been read by the ancient
Hebrew as we now read a biographical note
to the works of Bacon. Passing allusions to
other books of Kings and Chronicles
may have seemed like the conscientious ref-
erences of a Hume, a Prescott, or a Motley
to well-known official records; and explana-
tory remarks and parenthetical hints, easily
distinguishable by their connection, may have
been like helpful annotations upon the text of
a Milton or a Butler, with the difference that,
in Hebrew manuscripts, they could not be put
within brackets or in the margin. Indeed, a
competent editor, like Ezra the scribe, might
canonize otherwise unknown writers, as a
Niebuhr or a Grote could sift crude annals
and sanction the most obscure authors, or as
some rare genius might detect for us the apoc-
rypha of Shakspere. Not even such telltale
signs as new words, late idioms, or local
phrases could wholly discredit a renowned
author whose writings have come down to us
through all the vicissitudes of language and
literature. The several codes of Moses, if
framed before the conquest of Canaan, would
have been no more ideal than the Republic
of Plato, and any later Hebraisms or Chalda~
isms appearing among them since the Baby-
lonian exile need be no more puzzling than
Anglicisms or Americanisms among the feudal
forms and Norman phrases of a recent edition
of Blackstone. If the first and second parts of
Isaiah are in any sense prophetic, to refer
them to different authors at different periods
merely because of differences of theme, style,
and diction, would be like assigning a double
authorship to Paradise Lost and Paradise
Regained, or arguing from a modernized
version of Chaucer that he could not have
written the Canterbury Tales, or claiming
Childe Harold as an Elizabethan poem
because of its few archaisms and Spenserian
stanza. In all Hebrew literature, early, mid-
dle, and recent, there is no stumbling-block
like that of Lord Tennyson singing in the York-
shire dialect as well as in the purest English.
Sometimes the feats of genius may perplex us
even more than the marvels of inspiration.
Besides, it should not be forgotten that while
the Bible is literature, and very good literature,
yet it is not to be treated as uninspired litera-
ture, and judged by mere esthetic rules alone,
much less classed with the pseudonymous frag-
ments which have become the puzzle and the
scandal of critics. More than forty years ago
that prince of biblical scholars, Joseph Addi-
son Alexander, thought that such treatment
of Isaiah had already reached its limit, with
the promise of no further invention, unless
it be that of reading the book backward or
shuffling its chapters like a pack of cards.
The higher criticism may have its duties as
well as its rights. Without at all undervaluing
any of its assured results, we may still hope,
as we watch the brilliant tournament of learn-
ing and genius, that the combatants will at
length fight their way around the field of con-
jecture back to the traditional belief from
which they started, and which is still the com-
mon-sense judgment of mankind. That judg-
ment is, that if there be any evidence at all of
inspiration in the sacred writers, such evidence
favors their long-established authorship as well
as canonicity, and their consequent accuracy,
no less than their veracity, as organs of divine
revelation.
We are now ready for several conclusions.
Neither the literary imperfections, nor the
historiographical defects, nor the traditional
glosses of Holy Scripture can of themselves,
at their worst, impair its scientific integrity or
philosophic value, if it have this value. Such
mere errata may yet be corrected or explained,
and prove in no sense permanent errors, much
less essential untruths. They are wholly super-
ficial and transient, not of the abiding essence
of the revealed word. They may, indeed, and
they often do raise presumptions against theDOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS? 129
claim of inspiration in the minds of hostile
critics; but they are not the proper pleas of
the friendly critics who look for scientific er-
rors in an inspired Bible. Such critics take
the dangerous ground that the Bible teaches
nothing but religious truth, and may even
teach such truth in connection with scientific
error. This is dangerous ground, because it is
ground lying inside the limits of an accepted
revelation; because it involves not so much
the mere human form, as the divine content,
of that revelation; and because it exhibits
that divine content as an amalgam of fact and
fiction, truth and error, knowledge and super-
stition. It is dangerous ground also, because
it opens the way for hostile critics to proceed
quite logically from scientific errors to reli-
gious errors in the Bible, by arguing that if it
teaches false astronomy and crude physics, it
no less clearly teaches bad ethics and worse
theology. And it is dangerous ground in
philosophy as well as in religion, since it would
deprive her physical no less than her psychical
provinces of their chief source of transcen-
dental knowledge, and abandon her whole
metaphysical domain to the empiric, the ag-
nostic, and the skeptic. Literary and textual
obscurities there may be upon the surface of
Holy Writ, like spots upon the sun, or rather
like motes in the eye; but scientific errors in
its divine purport would be the sun itself ex-
tinguished at noon. Such a Bible could not
live in this epoch.
Let it first be observed, that the general dis-
tinction between errant Scripture and inerrant
Scripture is not made by Scripture itself. As
a theory of inspiration, it is modern and ex-
traneous. It has arisen from the supposed need
of adjusting an ancient book to the science and
culture of our time. Its good motive is not to
be questioned; nor can its plausibility be denied.
That divine truth should have been offered to
us in a setting of human error does not seem
at first sight wholly without analogy or prece-
dent. If nature has its flaws and monsters, why
may there not be faults and mistakes in Scrip-
ture? If the development of science has been
mixed with error, why not also the delivery of
revelation? There is even a grain of force in
such reasoning as applied to any mere textual
or literary difficulties yet to be removed or ex-
plained. But the moment it is applied to the
sacred authors themselves, it breaks down. It
was not their theory of their own inspiration.
If anything is plain in their writings, it is plain
that they claim to be making divine communi-
cations under an unerring guidance. Our Sa-
viour, too, sanctioned the claim in his own use
of the Hebrew Scriptures, and renewed it for
the Christian Scriptures. At length the apos-
tles went forth maintaining it amid the master-
VOL. XLV. IS.
pieces of Greek and Roman literature. When
St. Paul, in an assembly of Athenian philoso-
phers, quotes from Aratus and Cleanthes sen-
timents also quoted by Cicero and Seneca, it
is with the polite acknowledgment, As certain
of your own poets have said; but when he
quotes from Moses a sentiment afterward
quoted by David, it is with the devout pream-
ble, As the Holy Ghost saith. Now it is
simply impossible to associate such statements
with an erroneous communication from God
to man in any sphere of truth, physical or spir-
itual. The only escape from them is to except
them from the physical sphere, or limit them to
the spiritual sphere. But no such exceptions or
limitations can be found. As judged by their
owyi claims, the Scriptures, if inerrant at all,
must be accounted inerrant as to their whole
revealed content, whatever it be and wherever
found, whether in the region of the natural
sciences, or in that of ethics and theology.
The Bible also shows that its physical teach-
ing is implicated with its spiritual teaching in the
closest logical and practical connections, with
no possible discrimination between the one
as erroneous and the other as true. The full
import only of these connections can be dis-
cerned by profound study. Ordinarily we lose
sight of them. We are so prone to detach
Scripture from Scripture that we often neglect
or slight large portions which do not at once
strike our fancy or interest. We ask, what is
the use of Genesis, with its dry genealogies;
or Leviticus, with its obsolete ritual; or the
Prophets, with their mystical visions. Why
read the Old Testament at all, when we have
its fulfilment in the New? or why even take
much thought of the Epistles, while we have
their core in the Gospels? The words of
Christ contain the essential truths, and these are
so few and simple that they may be read run-
ning. All the rest we are ready to discard as
mere surplusage. So might some masterpiece
of dramatic art seem full of irrelevant scenes
and dialogues until its plot has been analyzed
and its details tested upon the stage. The de-
vout student of the Bible, intent on searching
its full contents, will soon find that the seem-
ing medley is in reality a living organism, with
its nearest spiritual truths in logical dependence
upon its remotest physical facts, and the one
in practical relation to the other. He will see
its astronomical revelation of a Creator of the
heavens and earth, not only distinguishing the
true Jehovah from the mere local and national
deities of antiquity, but identifying him with
the maker of suns and systems in our own time,
and thus disclosing the foundations of revealed
in all natural religion, together with the revealed
commandments against heathenism, idolatry,
and profaneness. He will see the geological130 DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS?
revelation of the six days works, not merely
upholding the narrow Sabbath of the old econ-
omy, as commanded from age to age, but pro-
jecting the larger Sabbath of the new economy
as yet to be realized in the millennial age of
peace, and so connecting the whole history of
the earth with the history of man. He will see
the anthropological revelation of Gods lost
image in man as at once demanding and sus-
taining the atonement and the incarnation,
together with the whole human half of the
decalogue, and the predicted regeneration of
both earth and man in the resurrection.
Throughout the realm of the sciences he will
see the author of Scripture revealing himself as
the author of nature, and building the one upon
the other. The whole psychical superstructure
of religious doctrines and ethical precepts will
appear to him reposing upon its physical foun-
dations in the prei~xisting constitution of nature
andhumanity. Remove but one of those foun-
dation-stones, and that superstructure will tot-
ter. They stand or fall together. Historically,
too, as well as logically, the concession of any
scientific errors has led to the downfall of the
whole biblical system of doctrine.
It is seldom remarked that both the physi-
cal and the spiritual teaching are alike given
in a non-scientific form. Often is it said and
said truly enough that the Bible does not~
teach astronomy or physics as a science. But
neither does it teach theology or ethics as a
science. The method and phrase of science are
no more, no less, wanting in its physical than in
its spiritual revelations. If the latter are pre-
sented as a mere crude mass of facts and truths
without law or order, so also are the former;
and it will be no harder to find the epochs of
geology in the first chapter of Genesis than
the persons of the Trinity in the first chapter of
St. John. If it be granted that the physical
truths of Scripture are couched in the popular
and phenomenal language of the times when it
was written, so also are its spiritual truths veiled
in the anthropomorphic and even barbaric im-
agery common to all rude peoples; and when the
Psalmist tells us, The sun knoweth his going
down, he is no worse astronomer than he is
theologian when he declares, He that sitteth
in the heavens shall laugh at the kings of the
earth. Ifitbe urged that we have left far behind
us the contemporary astronomy of the Old
Testament, with its spangled canopy of heaven
wrought as a marvel of handwork, how shall
we defend its contemporary theology, with its
man-like deity so often depicted as a monster
of anger, jealousy, and cruelty. If we are told
that we have outgroxvn its physics, with their
cisterns in the earth and windows in the sky
opened and shut by angels, what shall be said
for its ethics, so long charged with polygamous
patriarchs and pro-slavery apostles? If we are
warned against a few devout scientists who are
endeavoring to harmonize their geology with
the Mosaic cosmogony, is there to be no warn-
ing for this scandal of great churches and de-
nominations at the present moment adjusting
their metaphysics to the Pauline divinity? In
short, there is not an objection to the non-scien-
tific character of the physical teaching which
will not recoil with greater force against the
spiritual teaching. Whoever, for this reason
alone, affirms scientific errors in the biblical
astronomy and physics must be prepared to
admit them also in the biblical theology and
ethics.
Nor can it be said that the physical teach-
ing is any more reconcilable with popular fal-
lacies than the spiritual teaching. It has been
maintained that the divine author of the Scrip-
tures accommodated them to the scientific er-
rors of their own times for the sake of the moral
and religious truths to be conveyed. There was
no need to correct the false astronomy of the
ancient Jews, so long as the phenomenal sun-
rise and sunset were still true for them and for
their age. It was only important to give them
true ideas of God and duty, and to leave them
to their unaided reason in other matters of mere
science and culture. Our Lord himself is sup-
posed to have thus connived at the story of
Jonah, the belief in demoniacal possessions, and
even the tradition of the Mosaic authorship of
the Pentateuch. He did not come to teach natu-
ral history, or medical psychology, or the higher
criticism. It was enough for his purpose that
he could make the entombment in the whales
belly prefigure his own resurrection, prove his
Messiahship by seeming to cast out devils, and
enforce his teachings with the great name of
Moses. But the risk of such reasoning is that
it might prove too much. It might soon bring
down the maxim, False in one thing, false in
everything else, upon the head of any teacher
who only once should deceive his disciples and
teach them to deceive others. In the exam-
ples given, it would leave the most momentous
truths resting through all coming time upon a
basis of prejudice, superstition, and falsehood.
Moreover, it could be applied logically, as it
has been applied actually, to doctrines the most
essential; and in the end would reduce Chris-
tianity to mere natural religion as adapted to
Judaism. It is a matter of history that the so-
called theory of accommodation has thus run
its course in the schools of criticism. Be it ob-
served, however, that the theory itself is not here
in dispute, for the purpose of this argument.
You may adopt it, if you like; and treat the
history of Jonah as a mere nightmare vis-
ion with a good moral, the demoniacs as cases
of lunacy and delirium, and the literary claimDOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS.? 3
of Moses as an old Jewish legend. But in that
case you must be ready to find pious frauds
and innocent fables throughout the Bible, and
can no longer hold it to be false only in science
and not also in religion and morals. If it were
once true for its own time, it would soon cease
to be true for our time.
Here it should be noticed that both the phys-
ical and the spiritual teaching alike have a
permanent and universal import, as well as lo-
cal and temporary reference. Usually this is
admitted as to the biblical theology, despite its
antique and rude imagery. We have read the
Old Testament forward into the New and the
New Testament backward into the Old, until
the God of justice in the one seems consistent
with the God of mercy in the other, and all an-
thropomorphism disappears in a divine ideal
of infinite purity and love. But as to the physi-
cal sciences, it is sometimes held that the proph-
ets and apostles were so dominated by their
environment that they not only shared the sci-
entific errors around them, but may even have
expressed those errors in their inspired writings
as freely as they have exposed their own frail-
ties and idiosyncrasies. Otherwise, it is said,
no revelation could have been received by them
or made through them to their own age and
country, or indeed to any other age and coun-
try. There is a show of truth in such state-
ments. Certainly it would be very absurd to
treat the sacred writers as mere amanuenses
without thought or individuality; and quite
impossible to take them out of their proper set-
tingin the unscientific ages when they lived, and
from among the uncultured peoples whom they
taught. It is not even necessary to suppose
their own personal knowledge greater than that
of their contemporaries, outside of the divine
communications. But neither is it necessary
to suppose them acquainted with the entire pur-
port of those communications. They may have
spoken better than they knew. They may not
have been fully conscious of their messages,
as applicable in other eras and stages of cul-
ture. Even in pagan literature the great poets,
sages, and philosophers, though writing solely
for their own time, have unconsciously written
for all after time. So Homer sang in ancient
Greece; and the ages have been listening ever
since. So Euclid, two thousand years ago,
sketched lines and angles which to-day save
the sailor from shipwreck, and regulate the
commerce of nations. So Plato reasoned in the
academy, with little thought beyond his own
disciples; and the worlds philosophy is still
sitting at his feet. No more marvelous would it
be had David discerned a divine glory in the
heavens which astronomy now illustrates, or
Moses perceived a divine order of creation
which geology is confirming. Inspiration may
at least be supposed to equal genius. More-
over, the claim of inspiration being allowed,
the sacred authors at once appear as organs of
another and higher intelligence than their own.
Avowedly, they often speak of divine myster-
ies which they knew only in part, and sometimes
of a distant past or future which they neither
had seen nor could see. Moses, in his vision
of the creation, during six days may not have
reviewed the whole physical development of
the globe. Isaiah, in his vision of redemption,
may not have foreseen beyond his own fore-
ground, the whole moral career ofmankind. Yet
behind the words of both Moses and Isaiah was
an Omniscience embracing the entire course of
nature and of history. No violence would be
done to their personality by supposing them
the mouthpiece ofsuch Omniscience. As voiced
by its greatest teachers, science itself acquires
an ever-widening vision of which they had not
dreamed. Nor need any mystical sense be
claimed for the sacred text in order to give it
so large scope and fullness. It is not the mere
learned exegete or visionary saint who is now
reading between the lines of prophets and
apostles. Itis the strict scientist who is returning
from every conflict with the phenomenal lan-
guage of the Bible, to interpret that language,
as he has learned to interpret the phenomena
themselves, in a richer sense and with a wider
application. That the heavens declare the glory
of God, has become only more true since a
Newton and a Herschel have illuminated them
with suns and planets. That heaven and earth
were made in six days, is none the less true
because a Dana and a Guyot have been re-
tracing those days of Jehovah as long cosmo-
gonic eras. That man was created in the image
of God, might still be true, even though devout
biologists should yet prove him to be but the
full flower of the planetary life as well as the
highest ideal of the Creator. Only the young
and crude sciences, wrangling among them-
selves, are at seeming variance with Scripture.
The older, more complete sciences are already
in growing accord with it. Hence it is that the
revealed Jehovah still reigns in the astronom-
ical heavens instead of having been left far be-
hind us as an Israelitish Jupiter in the skies
of Mount Zion. For this reason Genesis~~ is
still repeating the story of the earth instead of
becoming the forgotten myth of some Hebrew
Hesiod; and for this reason Jesus himself is
no mere Jewish Socrates of the schools. In a
word, it is because the Bible, though non-scien-
tific, is not anti-scientific, that it is as true for
our time as it was true for its own time, and is
likely to remain true for all time to come.
We come next to the more positive argument
that the physical teaching, like the spiritual, has
been adapted both in kind and degree to our132 DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS?
wants and capacities. It may be objected to
the foregoing viexvs that after all, as a matter
of fact, we get our theology from Scripture,
and our natural sciences from nature, and
that a mere absence of scientific errors from
Scripture does not prove the presence of any
scientific verities. This is true, and yet not
true. As to theology, it is true that when con-
sidered as a metaphysical science of God and
divine things its material is mainly to be found
in the Bible; but it is not true that as an. em-
pirical science of religions it may not find ma-
terial outside of the Bible in thereligious history
of mankind. As to the physical sciences, it is
true that they are derived mainly from nature
as bodies of empirical knowledge; but it is not
true that they can find no metaphysical ground
and material in the biblical revelations concern-
ing physical facts. On the contrary, a thorough
investigation will show that, as we ascend the
scale of the sciences from the simple to the com-
plex, the revealed material increases with our
increasing moral needs and decreasing mental
equipment. In astronomy, on its metaphysical
side, we shall find at least some revealed mat-
ter, such as a Creator of the heavens whose im-
mensity, eternity, omnipotence, immutability,
and glory they declare; in geology, a little more
revealed matter, such as the divine order of the
material creation, the divine wisdom and good-
ness which it illustrates, with some moral crises
which mark its history; in anthropology, yet
more revealed matter, such as the creation of
man in the divine image, his vicegerent do-
minion over nature, his primitive innocence,
together with some glimpses of his early history,
the origin of races, languages, and arts, and
their adjustment in a scheme of universal prov-
idence. And so on, through the higher men-
tal and social sciences, we shall meet an ever-
growing volume of revealed facts and truths,
until we reach the topmost science of theology,
where the revealed material becomes transcen-
dent in kind and infinite in extent. Could we
here pursue such inquiries, it might be shown
that this apportionment of so large an amount
of spiritual teaching with relatively so small an
amount of physical teaching is not only in strict
accordance with the preexisting constitution of
the human intellect, but is itself a proof of the
divine wisdom which has presided over the
whole revelation.
It only remains now to add that the physical
teaching in its own place and for its own pur-
pose is quite as important and valuable as the
spiritual teaching. In proving this, there is no
need to belittle the great religious themes of
Scripture, or to deny a religious aim and pur-
port even in its physical revelations. Such facts
as the origin of the heavens, the formation of
the earth, and the constitution of man have a
physical side, which has been, indeed, revealed
to us in connection with religious truth. Nevei~-
theless, they are, at least, separable in thought
for special study under their scientific aspects
and in their scientific connections. As a matter
of fact, they are thus treated by physicists and
by some divines. Without foisting into the
Bible any occult meaning, or forcing it out of its
due sphere of influence, we may investigate its
correlations with astronomy, geology, anthro-
pology, and other sciences, considered as sub-
sidiary and complemental to divine revelation;
and the field of such correlations will widen the
farther we investigate them. Moreover, true
as it may be that religion is the chief topic of
revelation, yet it is still true that it touches other
great interests of humanity, and serves other
high purposes. Although never designed to
teach the arts and sciences, it has in fact alxvays
promoted theni in every stage of their progress.
While the furtherance of science, the perfection
of philosophy, and the growth of civilization
cannot be ranked as its chief ends and issues,
yet they may at least be classed as its incidental
fruits and trophies. In this guarded sense we
shall find that the physical portion of revela-
tion, small though it seem to be, is of the great-
est benefit to science, philosophy, and general
culture.
There is, first of all, its apologetical or eviden-
tial value, to which a passing glance should be
given. Civilization is interested in the defense
of Christianity; and whatever makes a divine
revelation valuable, either in philosophy or in
religion, becomes enhanced by the proof of
its harmony with human science. When the
chief authorities in any science are found favor-
ing such harmony; when its established truths
already illustrate it, and its hypotheses can be
hopefully adjusted toward it; and when all the
sciences are seen taking this general direction
according to their different stages of advance-
ment we gain new evidence of revelation,
the highest perhaps that can be afforded. It is
science itself becoming an unwitting, and some-
times an unwilling, witness at the bar of Omni-
science. It is evidence which is strictly scientific
in its logical quality and force, since it is derived
from the facts of nature as agreeing with the
truths of Scripture. In this age of the arts and sci-
ences it is as timely as the evidence yielded in the
age of miracles and prophecies. It meets the
modern scientist seeking wisdom, as that evi-
dence met the ancient Jew requiring a sign. It
even explains miracles and fulfils prophecies,
and thus crowns and completes all former evi-
dences. Without it, indeed, they would them-
selves fall worthless to the ground. As no miracle
could ever prove a falsehood, and no prophecy
could perpetuate nonsense, so no amount of
miraculous and prophetical evidence accumuDOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS? 33
lated in past ages could uphold a Bible contain-
ing scientific errorsin the face of modern science.
Herein lies the peril of the hour. The timid or
rash apologetes who are spiking their guns on
the outer bulwarks of scientific evidence, and
fleeing into the citadel of orthodoxy to repair its
walls, may yet find themselves in conflict with
enemies whom they had thought to admit as
friends within the ramparts. Schleiermacher
long since forewarned us of that bombard-
ment of derision, amid which they will be cere-
moniously interred in their own fortifications.
Not by weak concessions to science in this day
of abounding science is the Bible to be vindi-
cated. Only bystrengthening and insisting upon
its scientific proofs can it retain its power, either
at the center of Christian civilization or in the
logical crusade ofthe missionary among heathen
religions and philosophies.
But the direct value of revelation, not only
as scientifically attested, but as itself a source
of scientific verity, lies more within the present
inquify. As such value is largely metaphysi-
cal, it may not be readily appreciated by the
unthinking reader, who terms anything meta-
physical which he does not choose to under-
stand; or by the superficial thinker, who scorns
all metaphysics but his own; or even by the
special scientist, who abjures metaphysics for
the sake of some little fragment of empirical
knowledge. But to the profound inquirer,
even though he eschew the scholastic meta-
physics, it is becoming every day clearer that
all physics at length run out into metaphysics,
and that every physical science at bottom rests
upon some hidden metaphysical basis, under-
neath the facts or phenomena xvith which it
deals, down in a recondite region of realities
and causes which divine revelation alone can
disclose. The Bible, indeed, does not teach
the empirical part of any such science, its body
of phenomena and laws; but it does teach its
metaphysical complement, the divine ideas ex-
pressed in those phenomena, and the divine
causes of those laws. In astronomy it does not
teach celestial physics, the figures, motions,
and orbits of planets, suns, and stars throughout
infinite space and time; but it does teach that
divine immensity, eternity, and omnipotence
of which the whole celestial system is but a
phenomenal manifestation, and without which
it would be an infinite anomaly. In geology
it does not teach terrestrial chemistry, the birth
and growth of the earth, through all its eras
and phases, with all its strata, floras, and
faunas; hut it does teach that divine power,
wisdom, and goodness which are the source,
method, and issue of the whole terrestrial de-
velopment, and without which it would be at
once causeless and aimless. In anthropology
it does not teach the human organism, with its
laws of heredity and environment, and the
evolution of races, languages, and arts; but it
does teach those divine ideals through which
man has been passing from the image of an
ape to the image of God, and without which
he would be a mere failure and paradox. And
in the higher mental and social sciences, while
it does not teach any psychical processes and
laws, it does teach all needed spiritual truth
and knowledge. As yet, indeed, these subtle
connections between the rational and revealed
material of each science have not come clearly
into general view; much less have they been
logically ascertained and formulated. Never-
theless, the large-minded leaders in all the
sciences are at least seeking some more rational
ground for them than sheer ignorance or clear
absurdity; and not a few of them are finding
it practically by studying the works of God
together with his Word.
At the highest point of scientific contact
with the Bible appears its value in philosophy
considered as the supreme science of knowledge
or science of the sciences. Here the full ap-
preciation is not only difficult, but barred by
prejudice and distaste. We have become so
accustomed, wisely enough, to treat philosophy
as a secular pursuit, and have so just a dislike
to any crude admixture of religion with science,
that we may be in danger of the other extreme
of leaving at least one half the philosophic do-
main under the rule of skepticism and ignor-
ance. Often, because unwilling to mingle sacred
speech with scholastic jargon, we may seem to
accept theories of knowledge which ignore or
exclude revelation, as if there were no such aid
to reason. Possibly our agnostic friends, with
whom we agree up to a certain point, may
sometimes have fancied the fastidious reserve
to mean doubt of any philosophy taking reli-
gion as well as science within its scope. If this
be so, it is time to say, in the frankest English,
that while they are building their knowledge
upon faith, we are building our faith upon
knowledge. It is time to remind them that
the little they do know, they know only in
part; that the most exact science of which they
can boast is filled with crude hypothesis and
vague conjecture; that it has been reared
through ages of error by a fallible logic; that
it depends upon an assumed order of nature
which is broken every time they lift a stone
from the earth; that it rests ultimately upon
universal conceptions which by their own
showing are self-contradictory; in a word that,
apart from the despised metaphysics and the
neglected Bible, it is mixed with credulity and
based on absurdity.
It is time also, on our part, to insist that, al-
though we cannot know everything about God,
and the soul, and the unseen world, we may34 PLAIN WORDS TO WORKING M EN
at least know something; that the otherwise
Unknowable has been made known to us by an
intelligible revelation; that this revealed know-
ledge has been built up for us within the region
of facts, through ages of experience, before
science was born; that it not only comes to us
with scientific evidence, but itself supports each
science, and throughout the sciences yields ma-
terial without which they would fall, like fall-
ing stars, into a chaos and void in a word,
that the inspired Bible is a radiant source of di-
vine knowledge, chiefly within the psychical
sciences, but also within the physical, and
therefore essential to the completion of phi-
losophy itself as the crowning science of the
sciences. Such a philosophy will see no scien-
tific errors flecking that sun of truth, which
thus lights up its domain, but only paradoxes
to dazzle it, should it too rashly gaze, and
mystenes to blind it with tears.
It is more than half a century since this dis-
cussion began in the schools of Germany, and
less than half that time since it passed into the
Church of England. In our own country it
seems destined to become popular in its course,
as well as academic and ecclesiastical. The
daily press already reflects a growing interest
in questions of biblical criticism which hitherto
have been kept within the province of scholars
and divines. Parties are forming, as if some~
great battle for the truth of Holy Writ were
at hand. Its defenders, it is to be feared, are
as yet but poorly equipped and marshaled.
Their opponents boast of the highest culture
of the time; have the exultant sympathy of
the whole unbelieving class; and even claim,
however unwarrantably, some orthodox allies.
In the first onset, doubtless, they will win a
brilliant victory. Then may come a great up-
rising of the Christian masses, as moved by
that Holy Spirit who first inspired his Holy
Scripture. Whoever shall stand apart from
them in such a crisis will not be shunning a
religious question alone. In his place he will
be deserting some other related interest of hu-
manity. The thinker will be deserting that
which for ages has set the problems of philoso-
phy. The scholar will be deserting that which
has built up the universities of Christendom.
The artist will be deserting that which has
yielded the purest ideals of genius. The man
of letters will be deserting that which has
molded our English speech and literature.
The man of the world will be deserting that
which has lent to society refinement, and pur-
ity, and grace. The merchant, the lawyer, the
doctor will be deserting that which is the ethi-
cal basis of their callings. The patriot and the
statesman will be deserting that which has
given us our freedom and our laws. And the
philanthropist will be deserting that which is
the very keystone of civilization.
Cluirles W ~S/zields.
PLAIN WORDS TO WORKINGMEN.
BY ONE OF THEM.
HE cause of labor is the
issue of the hour. What
it ought to have, but has
not got; what it might be,
but is not; and whatit may
be, if it goes the right way
to get there, are questions
that fill the newspapers,
occupy platforms and pulpits, and cause not
a little headache in monopolistic and society
nightcaps. We are in fact being turned inside
out like a meal-bag, and scientifically gaged
like a barrel of high wines. Without doubt, we
shall be a disappointment to some in what
we are, and a surprise to most in what we are
not, being, after all, much the same as the
rest of folks, the difference resting mostly in our
boots and pockets. This change in events has
come about for two reasons: the world is get-
ting wiser, and we are getting troublesome.
Now that the world is rubbing its eyes to look
at us, that fact will do us no small good, if we
so far follow it as to take a good look at our-
selves, and with our expectations and claims
discover and make note of our faults.
SOME OF OUR FAULTS.
WE have made some considerable to-do
about what we ought to have. Do we ever
stop to think of how much we throw away?
We think of our thin slice of beef, our pat of
sausage-meat, and our red herringnever too
much and sometimes not enough; but how
often is it that we scratch our heads over the
dimes and dollars we drop in our mugs of beer?
We object to a cut in our wages, and have
hard words for such employers as, from greed
or necessity, reduce a workers weekly pay;
but do we not do the same thing when we

Fred WoodrowWoodrow, FredPlain Words to Working-Men. By One of Them134-138

34 PLAIN WORDS TO WORKING M EN
at least know something; that the otherwise
Unknowable has been made known to us by an
intelligible revelation; that this revealed know-
ledge has been built up for us within the region
of facts, through ages of experience, before
science was born; that it not only comes to us
with scientific evidence, but itself supports each
science, and throughout the sciences yields ma-
terial without which they would fall, like fall-
ing stars, into a chaos and void in a word,
that the inspired Bible is a radiant source of di-
vine knowledge, chiefly within the psychical
sciences, but also within the physical, and
therefore essential to the completion of phi-
losophy itself as the crowning science of the
sciences. Such a philosophy will see no scien-
tific errors flecking that sun of truth, which
thus lights up its domain, but only paradoxes
to dazzle it, should it too rashly gaze, and
mystenes to blind it with tears.
It is more than half a century since this dis-
cussion began in the schools of Germany, and
less than half that time since it passed into the
Church of England. In our own country it
seems destined to become popular in its course,
as well as academic and ecclesiastical. The
daily press already reflects a growing interest
in questions of biblical criticism which hitherto
have been kept within the province of scholars
and divines. Parties are forming, as if some~
great battle for the truth of Holy Writ were
at hand. Its defenders, it is to be feared, are
as yet but poorly equipped and marshaled.
Their opponents boast of the highest culture
of the time; have the exultant sympathy of
the whole unbelieving class; and even claim,
however unwarrantably, some orthodox allies.
In the first onset, doubtless, they will win a
brilliant victory. Then may come a great up-
rising of the Christian masses, as moved by
that Holy Spirit who first inspired his Holy
Scripture. Whoever shall stand apart from
them in such a crisis will not be shunning a
religious question alone. In his place he will
be deserting some other related interest of hu-
manity. The thinker will be deserting that
which for ages has set the problems of philoso-
phy. The scholar will be deserting that which
has built up the universities of Christendom.
The artist will be deserting that which has
yielded the purest ideals of genius. The man
of letters will be deserting that which has
molded our English speech and literature.
The man of the world will be deserting that
which has lent to society refinement, and pur-
ity, and grace. The merchant, the lawyer, the
doctor will be deserting that which is the ethi-
cal basis of their callings. The patriot and the
statesman will be deserting that which has
given us our freedom and our laws. And the
philanthropist will be deserting that which is
the very keystone of civilization.
Cluirles W ~S/zields.
PLAIN WORDS TO WORKINGMEN.
BY ONE OF THEM.
HE cause of labor is the
issue of the hour. What
it ought to have, but has
not got; what it might be,
but is not; and whatit may
be, if it goes the right way
to get there, are questions
that fill the newspapers,
occupy platforms and pulpits, and cause not
a little headache in monopolistic and society
nightcaps. We are in fact being turned inside
out like a meal-bag, and scientifically gaged
like a barrel of high wines. Without doubt, we
shall be a disappointment to some in what
we are, and a surprise to most in what we are
not, being, after all, much the same as the
rest of folks, the difference resting mostly in our
boots and pockets. This change in events has
come about for two reasons: the world is get-
ting wiser, and we are getting troublesome.
Now that the world is rubbing its eyes to look
at us, that fact will do us no small good, if we
so far follow it as to take a good look at our-
selves, and with our expectations and claims
discover and make note of our faults.
SOME OF OUR FAULTS.
WE have made some considerable to-do
about what we ought to have. Do we ever
stop to think of how much we throw away?
We think of our thin slice of beef, our pat of
sausage-meat, and our red herringnever too
much and sometimes not enough; but how
often is it that we scratch our heads over the
dimes and dollars we drop in our mugs of beer?
We object to a cut in our wages, and have
hard words for such employers as, from greed
or necessity, reduce a workers weekly pay;
but do we not do the same thing when we PLAIN WORDS [TO WORKINOMEN 35
beat a shoemaker out of a quarter for soling
our shoes, and underpay the teamster that
hauls our coal and wood? We complain of
being left off the slate by statesmen and pol-
iticians, and of having to pay taxes to bribe
aldermen and make millionaires of contrac-
tors but do we see to it that when we deposit
a ballot we cast it for a good man, and not
for a rogue? And are there not more time and
thought given as to what horse will win a race
than as to what kind of man we want at Wash-
ington? We find fault with corporations for
depressing labor-values when the market is full
of idle hands; but do we not crack the same
kind of whip when we compel a contractor in
the middle of an important contract to give us
higher wages, or find himself left out in the
cold? We have something to say about being
left out of some classes of society, by reason of
blue jeans and thick shoes; but do we not do
the same thing with our poorer neighbor who
has a room less in his house than there is in
ours, and more patches in his coat than we can
show. Soberly speaking, would there not be
fewer paupers in the poorhouse had they
taken care of what they once had, and fewer
insolvent grocers if we paid our debts, fewer
fools and more wise men in our city councils
and our congresses, had we spent more time
with our ballots and books than with billiards
and ninepins?
We are sufferers, it is true, from wrongs,
abuses, ec~onomic crimes, and corporate des-
potisms; but we can add to our hardships, and
get a life-lease to any one of them, if we go
on making mud faster than we sweep it away.
We are on the door-step of better days and
better homes, if we do not come down again.
If we do, the slip will be on our own heels.
No condition of society, no government, and
no change in the labor situation, can do us the
good it might, if we let our faults outrun their
sex-eral virtues. Nor can we well complain of
wet feet if we keep the faucet running, or of
fire if we smoke our pipes in dry straw. Our
societies and combinations have their force in
the right-doing of their individual constituents.
Their composition is the condition on which
they exist, for good or for evilputty or
granite, according to their atoms.
OUR FOLLIES.
THERE is no time in any history, no parish
in any country, or family in any house, in which
there is not to be found some one or some thing
that is off its base at times, and plays the fool,
if only for fun. On that score there is a pretty
wide crack of folly in both the china and the
earthenware of human life. We are no excep-
tion. Our follies are as natural as our teeth
or our fingers; and as with them, if one is de-
cayed we can pull it out, and if the other is
dirty we can wash it, so with what is crooked
or cross-grained in our ways and doctrines
we can straighten it out if we wish. As things
are with us to-day, the misfortune is that if we
make a break it is a big one, and in making a
mistake we are not sitting down on one egg,
but on a basketful. We have grown into so-
cieties and combinations, and are no longer
thumbs, but a handful of fingers. Organization
has run us into lumps, and when we move,
things have to give way or crack up. These
combinations are right enough, and good
enough, and some of them big enough. We
can do with them what we could never do with-
out them. We are in the position of a sheriff
who can back a subp~na with a stout posse,
or a government that can enforce its claims
with gunners and grenadiers. With this lump
of muscle in our sleeve, we can do some big
work for good or for evil. With these condi-
tions, our follies are something more than non-
sense, and in speaking of them let us remember
that it is always better to stop a fool than to
hang him, and to pick the barnacles off a boat
than to bore a hole in its bottom.
Now we are not without a crowd of friends,
who always side with the biggest dog in a fight,
and who are full of congratulations and flat-
teries; but the kind of friend that taps our
knuckles when we do what is foolish is some-
what scarce, and perhaps not always so wel-
come as he should be. We have always found
that the boy who praises another for stealing
an apple wants half of it; and it is about the
same with the older boys with whiskers and
gray hairs, who have no objection to stray
sheep if therefrom come their wool and mut-
ton. In these plain words we have no such
pap, and we are quite sure that there is no man
among us, with the average weight of com-
mon sense in his head, but will thank any one
for telling us of a wasp on our collar, or a chalk-
mark on our back.
So far understood, we proceed to consider
some of our follies.
It is common sense to suppose that where
two men dispute, say on the length of a pine
board, or the diameter of a wheel, they call in
some man with a tape-line to find out the di-
mensions, and to decide the (lispute; this is a
good old-fashioned and square-footed way of
settling the whole matter. This plain and prac-
tical sense is just as handy and useful in a dis-
pute with our employers. But is it not a fact
with too many of us that we are sticklers for
one side of the argument, and will neither con-
sider nor examine the other? It is just this one-
eyed kind of business that makes us lopsided,
and cross-grained, and as troublesome as a 136 PLAIN WORDS TO WORKING MEN
blind mule or a deaf dog. In many cases we
run ourselves into such reprisals as strikes and
boycotts, when a little sense and some fair in-
vestigation would have made such an action
as ridiculous as trying to stop a round hole
with a square peg. We are not talking now of
justifiable strikes, nor are we teaching the soft
nonsense that we are in duty bound to lie still
and be skinned alive, but only (and let us here
be clearly understood) of such strikes as are
hot-headed, blind, foolish, and downright ini-
quities. Take this for a sample:
We draw up a schedule of wagesfixed
and unalterable, till officially acted upon. In
that tariff we place a second-class man on the
same footing as we do the first-class. A can
lay iooo bricks in a certain time; B, for the
life of him, cannot place over boo. We insist
on equal pay, though we would kick mightily,
on our own behalf, at having to pay for a dozen
eggs when we got but six. The contractor
cannot see that this demand is fair. He has
his contract to fill, his bread to earn, and his
family to keep, just the same as we have. He
cannot afford to pay for work that is not done,
and if he could, he would be unjust to himself
to do so. He objects to put his head into the
mouth of a wolf, and refuses to pay the wage
as fixed on our schedule. We lay trowels down
and quit work, and in nine cases out of ten
brace up on a glass of lager, and go home, to
eat a dinner which perhaps is not yet paid for,
and with a very thin prospect of having as
much meat on our plate in a months time. We
hang out; the single men pack up and go else-
where, and the older folks look around for stray
jobs, being sometimes glad to cut wood and
shovel gravel: the whole thing, simmered down
to a fine point, being just this, that we are
suffering what we need not have suffered if
we had been as fair to another man as he was
willing to be to us. Pray, gentlemen, what fun
is there in this business of getting into debt,
running to the pawnshop, and accepting a
weekly contribution from men who have little
enough for themselves? What of comfort is
there in seeing our children losing the calves
off their legs, and the flesh off their bones,
wanting school-books, and soles on their shoes,
because their fathers are not heroes, but a pack
of fools?
Strikes are common, and they make notori-
ety and money for some, but we know well
enough that there is something painful and
tragical behind the painted scenes. They are
wet with childrens tears, and rattle with bare
bones, and are resonant with regrets and curses.
Strike when striking is absolutely necessary, if
you will, but for the sake of common sense, a
patch on your coat, and a potato for dinner,
never so consent on a wrong basis, or till the
whole system of conciliation and arbitration
has been exhausted. To suffer for what is right
is manful, and sometimes necessary, but there
is neither glory nor buttermilk in breaking
stones for a larceny on our neighbors pay-roll
and rights.
We may measure a boycott in the same
bushel. It is a mighty means of bringing some
bad men down to their marrow-bones, and of
choking some such burglars of human rights
as need it; but how often it is but simply the
policy of wrecking a train to run over a stray
cow, or, as we think, to punish a man sitting
in an easy-chair a thousand miles away. We
may shut the factory of a single sinner, and
shrink his bank-account, and reduce his rail-
way stock; but what of the five hundred
hands that made their bread and butter in his
employ? Where are they, now that the gates
are locked, and what are they eating, when the
grocer and the butcher refuse them credit? Is
it right to starve a baker because we have a
case against a miller; or to break up a butch-
ers trade because he buys his beeves of a
cattle king? These men have their rights as
we have ours, to buy or sell as they choose,
and the same right to live and get along as
we have. More than that, it is well to remem-
ber that the boycott knife is very apt to cut
the fingers that open it, and thus to cut the
wrong way. As before said, there is the virtue
of power in a boycott, as there is in a double-
headed switch-engine, and it is practically al-
mighty in the right direction; but it can run
both ways, and generally leaves some inno-
cent and broken bones under its wheels.
Such disasters are reactionary, and when the
outside public have once burned their fingers in
the matter, it is a dead-sure thing that they will
turn the waterworks on the fire till it is but an
ash-heap and a cold cinder. Of one thing we
may be certain: that two wrongs can never
make a right, and now that we have the means
of a peaceful settlement of disputes in arbitra-
tion, it is a folly and a crime to resort to any repri-
sal till all fair and judicial methods have been
exhausted. Taking down one tyranny to put up
another is bad policy. The iron rod is not an
inch shorter nora pennyweight less on the scale
for passing from one class to another; and it
will be just as easy to make five out of twice
two, as to make the industrial world better and
happier by any such process of doing wrong
that right may come. Compelling unwilling
men, under a threat of non-employment, to join
unions, and insisting on employees discharging
such as refuse, with the threat of a strike or
a boycott, is not a whit less a sin against so-
cial freedom than is the black-list of a railway,
or the lockout of a manufactory. We have our
rights let us press them; we have our follies PLAIN WORDS TO WORKINGMEN 37
let us throw them away with our old shoes
and broken plates.
OUR CHANCES.
WE have come to a point in labor progress
where we see not only the fence-rails that shut
us in to small pudding and poor pay, but have
the means, and the public consent, to take them
down. We can get out of the woods into the
road, and out of darkness into daylight, if we
choose to do so. We wanted good laws, and
we have come at last under the dome of Wash-
ington, and up the stairways of Congress. By
civilization and progress, we are no longer the
serfs of society, but the sovereigns. What we
think, and say, and do, is not now a mere mat-
ter of club-rooms, third floors, and back base-
ments, but a national concern. We are in the
reading-desk; have we mastered the alphabet?
We are at the helm of the ship; do we know
the chart? Have we the necessary wisdom to
see our chances and to use them? The bag of
flour is on the table; can we make a decent
loaf of bread?
These are grave questions, and it is well to
think them over, and where we find a shortage
in weight, to make it up, and when we find un-
fitness to set ourselves to the task of wiping it
off the slate. It is on this line, and in this new
position, that the necessity of more knowledge,
and the value of education, are as plain as a
1ikestaff. We may have common sense and the
average half-ounce of good intentions. These
are good in their place, and are absolutely in-
dispensable in all the details of life; but they
cannot clean a clock, run a train, or lead la-
bor up the ladder of its chances. Good inten-
tions may fail at setting a broken leg, and a
lump of muscle may not make up for a spoon-
ful of brain; and the time has come for us to
study as much as we smoke, and to think as
much as we talk. We have the chance of get-
ting books as easy as we do tobacco, and news-
papers as cheap as a pair of shoe-strings. More
than that, with our organizations we can con-
nect lyceums and lectures, and start systematic
programs of lodge studies, and thus, by our
shouting less and thinking more, we can be
able, in an educational sense, to utilize our op-
portunities. We have also in sight the direct
way of being better off in our stock of eatables,
clothes, and dollar-bills, by such a process as
that of co6peration.
A woan FOR COOPERATION.
JUST remember that file of twenty-eight poor
weavers, tramping over the cobblestones of
Toad Lane in Rochdale, taking down the shut-
ters of an old factory-room, and stocking it with
VOL. XLV.19.
groceries, with the shoeblacks throwing mud at
them, and the policeman uncertain whether
they were tramps or lunatics. They went on,
however, in the way of weaving by day and
running their store at night, buying out of their
investment what they wanted of tea, sugar,
matches, and bacon. In 1844 they started with
just 28 members and a capital of /28. In
1867 they had 6,823 members, /128,435 in
funds, had done business to the amount of
/284,910, and had accumulated the round
sum of /41,619 as clear profit. There is no
reason why we should not add to our little
store by such enterprise and good sense. It is
a grand idea; there is no such like it in any
scheme for our industrial well-being. We are
grumbling, and very rightly too, about the way
the money runs; most of it, like the rain on
a roof, into a few big tubs, and sparing only
some chance pailfuls for the rest of us. By co-
operation we can change this system of big
water-pipes, and do some good plumbing on
our own account. There are some men in the
world who would persuade us that the inequali-
ties of wealth can be removed by anarchy and
revolutionby upsetting the farmers wagon
and having a general good time in eating his
watermelons. They teach us the doctrine of
a forcible division of all things, so that no mans
share of gold and silver, beef, mutton, cake, and
pie,- shall be more than any others. It never
was, never can, and never will be done. A
given amount of work or investment has its
legitimate results. We may not get it in every
case, but, when we do, no man has the right
to the eggs, so long as we own the hens, or to
the crop, so long as we paid for the seed and
did our own plowing. What we want is not a
division, but a system of cobperation and profit-
sharing that is distributive without being un-
just. To bring about such a system is one of
our aims, and, like all other things worth
having, it will be on the line of hard work, com-
mon sense, and fair play. The principle of co-
operation goes to show that the wrongs of
industrial life at which we kick are most of them
removable by judicious methods, and not by
any other means that we know of.
PROFIT-SHARING.
THE idea of profit-sharing is in the same
direction, though not so far advanced, as
co6peration. It is not a move from the labor
side, but from that of capital toward labor,
by giving it a share in the profits of its invest-
ment. It is a step up-stairs, and its application
and benefits depend on ourselves. It is a mat-
ter of much promise to us workers, as recog-
nizing faithful service, energy, and well-doing.
it meets us in our want of capital by giving138 SOME EXPOSITION USES OF SUNDA 1K
us a share of investments toward which we
could not spare a dollar, and it is adaptable to
our present condition of ignorance (most of
us with no knowledge or tact whatever) in the
manipulation of money and the management
of business. We look upon profit-sharing as a
step on the line of progress, and as indicating
on the part of employers a ~vise and manly
intent to make our lot better than it is. Our
chance lies in being equal to our duties, and
not abusing our privileges. In these things
there is no room for demagogues or dead-
heads; the lazy and the shiftless, the drunken
and the dishonest, must rub their elbow-joints
somewhere else. We want no such sand in
our sugar; and to my fellow-toilers I would
say: Let us be as deserving of our rights as we
have been noisy over our wrongs. We have no
faith in any nonsense that thinks it can make
the world so fiat that there will be no hills to
climb and no holes to tumble into, and life in
general so easy that we can go to heaven on
padded chairs. There will always be some of
us who will spend all they get, as if it was a
hot coal in their jeans or a pot of butter in
their hats. Men will lie, and cheat, and be
tyrants, so long as this old planet throws a
round shadow on the silent moon; but for
such as are not of that kind the outlook is
clear and the future full of hope. The chances
are in our favor if we are but wise enough so
to see them, and are not so loose-fingered as
to let them slip.
We workingmen have, as a class, our faults
and follies; we have had our backsets, and we
have some excuses for our ignorance: but be
the past all it has been of wrongs, tyrannies,
rags, tears, and bare bones, we can be even the
better for that stern disciplineif we do not
come short of our duty.
Fred Woodrow.
SOME EXPOSITION USES OF SUNDAY.
FOREIGNER, sitting be-
side a Vermont stage-
driver, after observing for
some time the rugged and
barren aspect of the re-
gion through which he was
passing, is said to have ex-
i..........J claimed, What do they
raise in this country, anyhow? To which
the driver replied, with sententious brevity,
They raise men.
It was an answer which had the preeminent
merit of being true. The somewhat austere
and discouraging conditions under which in
many parts of a new country men have wrought
and built have issued in certain substantial
qualities of character which have had not a
little to do with the virtue of communities and
the greatness of a state; and thus it was, at
any rate in the earlier stages of its existence,
that the nation which is soon to celebrate the
fourrhundredth anniversary of the discovery
of America may be said to have vindicated
the wisdom of the American experiment.
Since those earlier days, with their stern ex-
periences, the situation has greatly changed.
The emergencies which challenged those who
laid the foundations of a new civilization amid
the wildernesses of North America have de-
veloped an energy, and stimulated an ingenu-
ity, of which, next year in Chicago, we are to
see the latest and richest fruits. There can be
little doubt of the splendor of the Exposition,
or of the impressive variety of its various
features. Quick as is our western mind to
recognize and appropriate almost everything
that is excellent in older civilizations, it has
been quicker still to develop the forces, and to
create the instruments, by means of which tasks
hitherto regarded as almost impossible have
been swiftly and triumphantly achieved; and
in whatever else the Exposition of 1893 may
be wanting, itwill not be lacking in bewilder-
ing illustrations of human ingenuity and of
mechanic and artistic skill.
The tendency of the lavish production of
these things is noticeable wherever we turn.
Life is fuller, we are told, in these days than it
was in the days of our fathers, and in more than
one sense this is not to be disputed. It is fuller
of conveniences, it is fuller of luxuries, it is fuller
of a kind of restlessness which is not necessarily
unwholesome, since out of it has come so much
benevolent and beneficent activity in many
forms. But whether life is really fuller in the
sense that it is richer, and more ~vorthily intelli-
gent, and more generously aspiring, is a very
different question. I shall not undertake to an-
swer it, but it would seem as ifs, just now, it were
in many ways, and for the bib reasons,worth
answering. A people may be great in one sense
by virtue of what it has. Extent of territory,
variety of resources, felicity of situation (a very
unique characteristic of our American commu-
nity), may go far toward making it great in a
sense in which nations are often so estimated.
Again, a nation may be great because of what
it has done; the territory it has subdued, the

138 SOME EXPOSITION USES OF SUNDA 1K
us a share of investments toward which we
could not spare a dollar, and it is adaptable to
our present condition of ignorance (most of
us with no knowledge or tact whatever) in the
manipulation of money and the management
of business. We look upon profit-sharing as a
step on the line of progress, and as indicating
on the part of employers a ~vise and manly
intent to make our lot better than it is. Our
chance lies in being equal to our duties, and
not abusing our privileges. In these things
there is no room for demagogues or dead-
heads; the lazy and the shiftless, the drunken
and the dishonest, must rub their elbow-joints
somewhere else. We want no such sand in
our sugar; and to my fellow-toilers I would
say: Let us be as deserving of our rights as we
have been noisy over our wrongs. We have no
faith in any nonsense that thinks it can make
the world so fiat that there will be no hills to
climb and no holes to tumble into, and life in
general so easy that we can go to heaven on
padded chairs. There will always be some of
us who will spend all they get, as if it was a
hot coal in their jeans or a pot of butter in
their hats. Men will lie, and cheat, and be
tyrants, so long as this old planet throws a
round shadow on the silent moon; but for
such as are not of that kind the outlook is
clear and the future full of hope. The chances
are in our favor if we are but wise enough so
to see them, and are not so loose-fingered as
to let them slip.
We workingmen have, as a class, our faults
and follies; we have had our backsets, and we
have some excuses for our ignorance: but be
the past all it has been of wrongs, tyrannies,
rags, tears, and bare bones, we can be even the
better for that stern disciplineif we do not
come short of our duty.
Fred Woodrow.
SOME EXPOSITION USES OF SUNDAY.
FOREIGNER, sitting be-
side a Vermont stage-
driver, after observing for
some time the rugged and
barren aspect of the re-
gion through which he was
passing, is said to have ex-
i..........J claimed, What do they
raise in this country, anyhow? To which
the driver replied, with sententious brevity,
They raise men.
It was an answer which had the preeminent
merit of being true. The somewhat austere
and discouraging conditions under which in
many parts of a new country men have wrought
and built have issued in certain substantial
qualities of character which have had not a
little to do with the virtue of communities and
the greatness of a state; and thus it was, at
any rate in the earlier stages of its existence,
that the nation which is soon to celebrate the
fourrhundredth anniversary of the discovery
of America may be said to have vindicated
the wisdom of the American experiment.
Since those earlier days, with their stern ex-
periences, the situation has greatly changed.
The emergencies which challenged those who
laid the foundations of a new civilization amid
the wildernesses of North America have de-
veloped an energy, and stimulated an ingenu-
ity, of which, next year in Chicago, we are to
see the latest and richest fruits. There can be
little doubt of the splendor of the Exposition,
or of the impressive variety of its various
features. Quick as is our western mind to
recognize and appropriate almost everything
that is excellent in older civilizations, it has
been quicker still to develop the forces, and to
create the instruments, by means of which tasks
hitherto regarded as almost impossible have
been swiftly and triumphantly achieved; and
in whatever else the Exposition of 1893 may
be wanting, itwill not be lacking in bewilder-
ing illustrations of human ingenuity and of
mechanic and artistic skill.
The tendency of the lavish production of
these things is noticeable wherever we turn.
Life is fuller, we are told, in these days than it
was in the days of our fathers, and in more than
one sense this is not to be disputed. It is fuller
of conveniences, it is fuller of luxuries, it is fuller
of a kind of restlessness which is not necessarily
unwholesome, since out of it has come so much
benevolent and beneficent activity in many
forms. But whether life is really fuller in the
sense that it is richer, and more ~vorthily intelli-
gent, and more generously aspiring, is a very
different question. I shall not undertake to an-
swer it, but it would seem as ifs, just now, it were
in many ways, and for the bib reasons,worth
answering. A people may be great in one sense
by virtue of what it has. Extent of territory,
variety of resources, felicity of situation (a very
unique characteristic of our American commu-
nity), may go far toward making it great in a
sense in which nations are often so estimated.
Again, a nation may be great because of what
it has done; the territory it has subdued, theSOME EXPOSITION USES OF S UNJ9A Y 39
railroads it has built, the towns it has planted,
the institutions it has created, the feebler peo-
l)les whom it has conquered, the vast immigra-
tion which it has more or less perfectly assimi-
lated. But it will hardly be denied that a nation
is truly great not so much because of what it
has, or has done, as because of what it isthe
virtue of its citizens, the equity of its laws, the
justice and purity of their enactment and their
administration; the worthy use of its wealth,
if it has wealth; if it has power, the righteous
and scrupulous use of its power. And if at any
time, in connection with any memorable anni-
versary in its history, it undertakes at once to
commemorate and illustrate its achievements,
it would seem as if it might wisely and worthily
associate with such commemoration some seri-
ous and resolute endeavor to take account of
its resources in their higher aspect, and to con-
sider the relation of material progress to that
other progress which is intellectual and moral.
It is this consideration which has suggested
the title which is prefixed to this paper. A
very just jealousy has already disclosed itself
lest the approaching Columbian Exposition
should become indirectly the means of ob-
scuring the American ideal of the Day of Rest,
and it has been affirmed that to open the Ex-
position for any purpose whatever on Sundays
would go a long way toward precipitating this
result.
In other pages than these1 I have ven-
tured to submit some considerations why some
modification of these views might wisely be
entertained. Of the danger of any substantial
surrender of them I am as profoundly per-
suaded as any one can be; and if it is to be a
question between the complete closing of the
Exposition, and such surrender of it to secular
uses on Sundays as makes no discrimination
between Sundays and week-days, then, for one,
I should be in favor of the most rigorous clos-
ing of every door. But the question which I
have ventured elsewhere to raise is the ques-
tion whether there might not be some uses of it
which are not incongruous with our American
traditions of the essential sanctity of Sunday,
and whether these uses are impossible in
Chicago. Says Macaulay, in his essay on Mit-
fords Greece: The history of nations, in
the sense in which I use the word, is often best
studied in works not professedly historical.
But it is not alone its history that a people
needs to study, but the tendencies and the
significance of its history; and, above all, the
substantial worth and helpful relations, in
the highest aspect of them, of the things which
it has achieved. And so it would seem that if
we could enlarge and emphasize the teaching
1 See Sunday and the Colombian Exposition, in
The Forum, October, 1892.
power of a great Exposition, we would be do-
ing the best kind of service to those whom it
will attract. It is not, surely, merely for the
gratification of our national vanity, or for the
exhibition of our national complacency, that
we are heaping together our material achieve-
ments, and inviting the rest of the world to
compete with us!
But if there is to be serviceable teaching, it
may reasonably be demanded that there should
be competent teachers. In one sense, certainly,
a dumb and motionless construction may be an
eloquent teacher. But it will be a much more
eloquent teacher if it has some one to explain
and interpret it. And it will be eloquent most of
all if it has some one who is competent to show
its significance, and to point out its relations
to those higher aspects of our civilization which
have to do with its highest aims. It is here, as
I think, that some uses of Sunday suggest them-
selves which certainly are not incongruous with
its sanctity, and which are as certainly far bet-
ter than to dismiss great numbers of people to
a day spent largely, if not wholly, in mere idle-
ness. For the moment we may leave out of
sight the eminent probability that very few peo-
ple will consent to spend it in this way. We
may assume, if we will, that a large majority of
them will devote at least a part of it to acts
of religious worship and a part of it to absolute
rest. We may dismiss from our minds the ap-
prehension that many persons will find in the
enforced idleness of Sunday in a strange city
temptations to some evil uses of idle hours. All
this, I say, we may for the moment leave wholly
out of account. The question still remains
whether there may not be uses for Sunday, in
connection with an anniversary so exceptional,
which may be not unworthy of association with
a very sacred day and of those whose aims and
interests are not exclusively material.
For in what, after all, does the true wealth
of nations consist~? Adam Smith to the con-
trary, it may safely be said that it consists
in the possession of noble ideals. It is the
maintenance of these that gives us a State
which raises men; it is the quickening of
these which gives us a character which
achieves enduring results. But it is the mis-
fortune of a national or international exposi-
tion that it is an illustration mainly of the
achievements of human handiwork. Whether
it be in tools or machinery, or even in pictures
and sculpture, it is mainly an exhibition of
what has been wrought in material elements.
But suppose that one whose good fortune it
will be to see all this marvelous assemblage
of what machinery and the handicrafts have
wrought, could enjoy the greater good fortune
of seeing them in the company of one who
was wise and able and clever enough to com140 SOME EXPOSITION USES OF S UN]9A Y.
prehend them in their relations to other things,
and in their larger relations to that complex
thing which we call modern life. Suppose that
as one came into the presence of this great ob-
ject-lesson there moved beside him one who
knew how, adequately, to interpret it. This,
at any rate, would be to bring us into contact
with something nobler and more interesting
than matter, because it would be the mind
that wrought in and triumphed by means of
it. And, to go a step further, suppose that
there were some one who could gather up for
us the larger lessons of this or that or the
other department of a great exposition, and
make us sensible of its significance as a part
of the onward march of modern civilization.
This surely would be not alone to see some-
thing, but to learn something; and so, in the
loftiest sense, a great exposition would be-
come not merely a colossal show, but a mighty
and ennobling educator.
Is such a thing impossible? Are there not
men in our American universities and colleges,
in public life, in the full tide of successful pro-
fessional activity, scores and hundreds of whom
could render luminous and edifying a whole
range of themes which a great international
exposition would easily and immediately sug-
gest? There are men scattered all over the
continent whom many of us know through
their pens, but whom it would be an inesti-
mable privilege to know through the living
voices. In every department of science, of art,
of letters, there are teachers competent to turn
Chicago into a glorious school in which all that
one saw there was but the prelude to what
one heard and learned with the ear and the
mind. And does anybody who recalls the names
and the gifts of these teachers doubt that, if
opportunity were given them, they could speak
to the multitudes who would gladly hear them
of the higher significance of the intellectual
and material achievements of the last four hun-
dred yearsnot in the dry tones of merely
scientific or technical analysis, but with that
larger and finer vision which sees in tbings ma-
terial the sign and emblem of truths and forces
which are part of a higher realm? We talk
of civilization, and of the mechanism of it, but
can we go even a little way in its study with-
out discovering how closely it is related to the
moral history of nations and the progress of
ideas? Somebody has said that gunpowder
has had almost as much to do with the spread
of truth as printing; and though the phrase may
sound paradoxical, it is not difficult to see how
the expulsion of the old barbarisms, whether
of peace or of war, like the retreat of ignorance
before the onward march of knowledge, has
borne no insignificant part in lifting the life of
nations to a cleaner and more righteous level.
But the value of such suggestions, if they have
any at all, lies chiefly in this, that they open the
way for others that are at once more obviously
and appropriately connected with all our tra-
ditional conceptions of the American Sunday.
To most of us that day stands supremely as an
institution of religion. But for what is religion,
if it be not for the revelation and the inculca-
tion of moral ideals? It may have, most surely
it has, other uses, but this, no less surely, is pre-
eminent among them. And so ig when Sunday
came to the Exposition in Chicago, it could be
assumed that in some great hail in the midst of
it there would be some worthy and inipressive
presentation of theseif the nation should
summon its ablest and most eloquent teachers
and bid them do for us the prophets work amid
such profoundly interesting and suggestive sur-
roundings, it would hardly summon them in
vain. For Ham/el was right:
Sure, he that made us with such large discourse
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and godlike reason
To fust in us unused.
And no appeal made to that faculty will be
made wholly in vain.
AND if~ then, in connection with such occa-
sions, or as included in the scheme of which
they were a part, it could be so ordered that the
mighty forces of music could be invoked,
if on Sunday afternoons or evenings the multi-
tudes assembled in Chicago from hamlet and
village and prairie that rarely or never hear the
great works of the great masters, Mozart and
Beethoven, Handel, Haydn, Bach, Wagner,
and their compeers, could be lifted for a little
on the mighty wings of grand and majestic
harmonies, and made conscious of that subtle
tranfusion of the sensible into the spiritual,
which, in some aspects of it, seems to be the
sole province of music, surely that, too,would
be no unworthy use of a day consecrated to
lofty visions and unuttered aspirations. And
then, finally, ig in addition to all this,there could
be, not alone in immediate connection with the
Exposition itself, but in every sanctuary and
pulpit of the great city, thronged and vibrant
with a great and keen curiosity, some elect and
chosen voices to speak for God and Duty and
Patriotism and Self-sacrifice and the Eternal
Verities, that, too, would be an undertaking
worthy of the best energies of those who might
give themselves to it, and worthy no less of the
great religious ideals of a great people. Already
we are hearing much of the religious exhibits
Sunday-school furniture, ecclesiastical ves-
sels and vestments, the paraphernalia of cere-
monial, or the machinery of Church work. It
1 Hamlet, act iv. Sc. 4. REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARM 4
xviii be well enough to have such things; but
it will be better to have some living incarna-
tions of the office of religion as a teacher, a
guide to men in dark places, a Voice of cour-
age and of hope amid the sorrow and burden
of life.
And so may the Exposition realize its noblest
result to help men to knoxv, to think, to corn-
pare, to remember, and to aspire. It may be
that the dream which I have thus far sketcbed
will seem to many impossible of realization;
but if the same energy and ability and organ-
ized endeavor which have already shown them-
selves in other directions shall attempt to make
it so, I am persuaded that it may become an
ennobling reality.
H ;zry C. Potter.
REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARM.1
BY A MEMBER OF THE COMMUNITY.2
JOINED the Brook
Farm, of which George
Ripley may be held the
founder, on the last day
of May, 1841. Part of the
company had already be-
gun work there about
the first of April. Some
engagements prevented my joining them until
the last of May, although I had enrolled my-
self among them some time before. Among
those I found there were Mr. and Mrs. Rip-
ley; Miss Marianne Ripley, a sister of Mr.
Ripley; Nathaniel Hawthorne; and Warren
Burton, who had been a Unitarian clergyman,
and was the author of several little books,
among them The District School as it was.
Mr. Ripley, who had been for some time the
minister of a Unitarian congregation in Boston,
was a scholar of much metaphysical and theo-
logical acuteness and learning, of a sanguine
temperament, and xvith a remarkable power
of rapid acquisition and perception perhaps
a little hasty in his conclusions, and with other
characteristics of a sanguine temperament.
His mind was filled and possessed xvith the idea
of some form of communism or co5peration,
and some mode of life that seemed to produce
better conditions for humanity; and was in-
formed to some extent of what had been said
and written on these subjects. Whether he
was at this time acquainted with the ideas and
works of Fourier, I cannot say; my own im-
pression is that he was, but others, who are
perhaps better informed than myself, tell me
that he did not become acquainted with them
till later, after he had been some time at Brook
Farm. I think he must, at least, have known
1 The association continued in existence and oper-
ation until some time in 1847, after the loss by fire of a
very extensive building (called phalanstery) before it
was finished. The whole enterprise was abandoned
mainly, I think, from financial troubles and embarrass-
ments.
2 The author of this paper died recently, at an ad
something of them through the writing of Al-
bert Brisbane. When he became acquainted
with them he was at first certainly not disposed
to adopt them fully; but later he and other
members tried to arrange the institution on
principles of Fouriers theories. Finding many
disposed to sympathize practically or theoret-
ically with his views and plans, he went for-
ward with an ardor and zeal that were inspiring
to those who came in contact xvith him, with
a genuine and warm interest in the idea of as-
sociation, and faith in the benefits it promised
to humanity. Full of enthusiasm for his hopes
and schemes, he threw himself into them with
disinterested zeal, and worked long and ear-
nestly and with much self-denial for their ac-
complishment. Mrs. Ripley, too, who was of
an energetic and enthusiastic temperament, en-
tered into his viexvs very heartily, and was al-
ways a prominent and important person in the
conduct of the enterprise, and entered xvith
zeal and efficiency into all the departments in
xvhich she could take part. There appeared
a just and favorable notice of her in some
pleasing papers on Brook Farm, in the Atlan-
tic Monthly, written by one of our zealous and
very useful co-workers.3
With them came Miss Marianne Ripley,
who bad had a school for young children in
Boston, several of xvhom she brought with her.
She lived in a small house close by the farm,
which xve called the Nest, and had a warm
interest in the enterprise.
Charles A. Dana, now editor of the New
York Sun, was an important member, and
for a long time, I think till the close of the
institution. He came to us from Harvard Col-
lege,which he bad been obliged to leave, I think,
vanced age. He was a man somewhat of the Emerson-
ian type, of singular purity and loveliness of character.
He was a teacher by nature as well as by profession,
and one whose influence was as elevating as it has been
abiding in many livesTHE EDITOR.
3 Miss Amelia Russell,formerly of Milton, not now
living.

George P. BradfordBradford, George P.Reminiscences of Brook Farm141-148

REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARM 4
xviii be well enough to have such things; but
it will be better to have some living incarna-
tions of the office of religion as a teacher, a
guide to men in dark places, a Voice of cour-
age and of hope amid the sorrow and burden
of life.
And so may the Exposition realize its noblest
result to help men to knoxv, to think, to corn-
pare, to remember, and to aspire. It may be
that the dream which I have thus far sketcbed
will seem to many impossible of realization;
but if the same energy and ability and organ-
ized endeavor which have already shown them-
selves in other directions shall attempt to make
it so, I am persuaded that it may become an
ennobling reality.
H ;zry C. Potter.
REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARM.1
BY A MEMBER OF THE COMMUNITY.2
JOINED the Brook
Farm, of which George
Ripley may be held the
founder, on the last day
of May, 1841. Part of the
company had already be-
gun work there about
the first of April. Some
engagements prevented my joining them until
the last of May, although I had enrolled my-
self among them some time before. Among
those I found there were Mr. and Mrs. Rip-
ley; Miss Marianne Ripley, a sister of Mr.
Ripley; Nathaniel Hawthorne; and Warren
Burton, who had been a Unitarian clergyman,
and was the author of several little books,
among them The District School as it was.
Mr. Ripley, who had been for some time the
minister of a Unitarian congregation in Boston,
was a scholar of much metaphysical and theo-
logical acuteness and learning, of a sanguine
temperament, and xvith a remarkable power
of rapid acquisition and perception perhaps
a little hasty in his conclusions, and with other
characteristics of a sanguine temperament.
His mind was filled and possessed xvith the idea
of some form of communism or co5peration,
and some mode of life that seemed to produce
better conditions for humanity; and was in-
formed to some extent of what had been said
and written on these subjects. Whether he
was at this time acquainted with the ideas and
works of Fourier, I cannot say; my own im-
pression is that he was, but others, who are
perhaps better informed than myself, tell me
that he did not become acquainted with them
till later, after he had been some time at Brook
Farm. I think he must, at least, have known
1 The association continued in existence and oper-
ation until some time in 1847, after the loss by fire of a
very extensive building (called phalanstery) before it
was finished. The whole enterprise was abandoned
mainly, I think, from financial troubles and embarrass-
ments.
2 The author of this paper died recently, at an ad
something of them through the writing of Al-
bert Brisbane. When he became acquainted
with them he was at first certainly not disposed
to adopt them fully; but later he and other
members tried to arrange the institution on
principles of Fouriers theories. Finding many
disposed to sympathize practically or theoret-
ically with his views and plans, he went for-
ward with an ardor and zeal that were inspiring
to those who came in contact xvith him, with
a genuine and warm interest in the idea of as-
sociation, and faith in the benefits it promised
to humanity. Full of enthusiasm for his hopes
and schemes, he threw himself into them with
disinterested zeal, and worked long and ear-
nestly and with much self-denial for their ac-
complishment. Mrs. Ripley, too, who was of
an energetic and enthusiastic temperament, en-
tered into his viexvs very heartily, and was al-
ways a prominent and important person in the
conduct of the enterprise, and entered xvith
zeal and efficiency into all the departments in
xvhich she could take part. There appeared
a just and favorable notice of her in some
pleasing papers on Brook Farm, in the Atlan-
tic Monthly, written by one of our zealous and
very useful co-workers.3
With them came Miss Marianne Ripley,
who bad had a school for young children in
Boston, several of xvhom she brought with her.
She lived in a small house close by the farm,
which xve called the Nest, and had a warm
interest in the enterprise.
Charles A. Dana, now editor of the New
York Sun, was an important member, and
for a long time, I think till the close of the
institution. He came to us from Harvard Col-
lege,which he bad been obliged to leave, I think,
vanced age. He was a man somewhat of the Emerson-
ian type, of singular purity and loveliness of character.
He was a teacher by nature as well as by profession,
and one whose influence was as elevating as it has been
abiding in many livesTHE EDITOR.
3 Miss Amelia Russell,formerly of Milton, not now
living.142
from some trouble in his eyes. He was sanguine
in temperament, with all the ardor of youth,
and of great natural energy and rather arbi-
trary will, of fine personal appearance and at-
tractive qualities in some other respects. Being,
as I think, somewhat of a doctrinaire, he em-
braced the ideas and modes of operation with
ardor and systematic energy; and, as he brought
with him from Harvard the latest improve-
ments in scholarly law, filled an important
l)lace as teacher, worker, and counselor.
Dana did not come at the beginning, but
later than myself, in the course of the first
summer.
MinotPratt, who with his family came in
the course of the first summer, wa savery
valuable accession to our society. He had
been a printer, but was drawn to the Brook
Farm enterprise by sympathy with its object
and the mode of life, as well as by his taste for
agriculture, which last he retained during his
life. He was a man of singular purity and up-
rightness of character and simplicity of taste,
and was in many ways a very valuable mem-
ber. In the later years of his life he was much
devoted to the study of botany, and had a
very peculiar, personal, and most extensive
practical knowledge of the plants of Concord,
where he passed the remaining years of his
life after leaving Brook Farm.
A man who proved to be a valuable and
generally liked member of our company was
John Cheever. He was said to be son of an
English baronet, and once held some posi-
tion, I think, in the government of Canada.
What the previous life of Cheever had been
I cannot say. We found him intelligent, kind-
ly, obliging, and very capable and useful in
some directions. His case was a pathetic
one: from his former experience in life and
a natural insight into character he seemed
especially drawn to persons of superior culture
and refinement, who in their turn became
much attached to him; yet he always seemed
to feel a sort of gulf between them and him-
self.
Then a very important person to us in our
inexperience in farming was Tom Allen, a
young farmer from Vermont who had become
interested in the idea this was one of
our pet phrases. He was valued and rather
looked up to for his knowledge of farm work,
and had pleasing traits of natural refinement.
Besides those I have mentioned, there were
others of marked and interesting character
among them several young women, who, if not
much known to fame, made a strong and last-
ing impression on the friends who had the
good fortune to know them and enjoy their
friendship.
I joined the company, as I said, the last of
May. I arrived at evening, and the first im-
pression was not very cheerful, the whole as-
pect of things being a little forlorn. Perhaps the
company were tired out with the hard farm
work, which I think the novices found more
exacting than they had expected. Taken from
books and comparative luxury and elegance
of living, and obliged to work, day in and day
out, in shoveling in the barn-yard, which Mr.
Ripley called his gold-mine, they were quite
wearied and naturally a little depressed. But
the next day, June i, made ample amends. It
was to be a sort of holiday. Various groups
of ladies who had been pupils and friends of
Mrs. Ripleymany of them with their young
children came out from the city to pass a
festive day. The excitement of the arrival
of the successive parties; the exuberant spirits
of the children on their holiday, on this loveli-
est of June days, and amid the very charming
fields, woods, and knolls that made up or
surrounded the farm, or skirted the lively
brook that gave name to the place; the en-
thusiasm of the new devotees to a life that
looked so beautiful and fascinating on such a
day; theinterest of those from the outside world
who came to see old friends in so novel an en-
vironment ,gave a sort of glamour to the whole
scene, and to the enjoyment of the day. It
seemed Arcadia rediix at least, if we had not
got As/rcra redux. To the new inmates and
cultivators it appeared the promise of a new,
beautiful, and poetical life. We were floated
away by the tide of young life around us. I
dwell a little on this day, which may seem to
my readers very like an ordinary picnic, be-
cause it was the type and precursor of many
such golden days that at intervals came to
throw a bright light over our life, mingled, as
it was, with heavy and burdensome toil and
care for some of us. There was always a large
number of young people in our company, as
scholars, boarders, etc., and this led to a con-
siderable mingling of amusement in our life;
and, moreover, some of our company had a
special taste and skill in arranging and direct-
ing this element. So we had very varied
amusements suited to the different seasons
tableaux, charades, dancing, masquerades,
and rural filtes out of doors, and in the win-
ter, skating, coasting, etc. I have some vivid
and pleasant recollections of exciting scenes
by moonlight on the knolls, meadows, and river,
with the weird aspects of its wooded banks
under the wintry moon.
One great charm of the life at first, and in-
deed long after, was in the free and natural in-
tercourse for which it gave opportunity, and
in the working of the elective affinities which
here had a fuller play; so that although there
was a kindly feeling running through the family
REMINISCENCES OF BROOK fARM. REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARM 43
generally, little groups of friends drawn to-
gether into closer relations by taste and sym-
nathy soon declared themselves. For the first
summer certainly, and indeed long after, the
mode of life was felt to be very charming by
most of those who were there. The relief from
the fetters and burdensome forms of society,
The greetings where no kindness is,
And all the dreary intercourse of daily life,
was a constant delight to those who had suf-
fered from them in the artificial arrangements
of society; the inmates were brought together
in more natural relations, and thus realized the
charm of true and hearty intercourse; and at
the same time the relief and pleasures of soli-
tude were not wanting: one could withdraw
to the solitude of the woods, or of his own
room without offense to any.
There was for a long time a large element
of romantic feeling and much enthusiasm, es-
pecially among the young and more inexperi-
enced, and those who knew nothing of the
embarrassment of providing ways and means.
For there was much in the existing conditions
of our life to excite and promote this enthu-
siasm: the picturesque situation,with something
of wild beauty, with the rocks, woods, mead-
ows, river, and the novelty of our position,
where each step was often a new experiment,
and with new aspects ever developing them-
selves. Nor was this enthusiasm confined to
the young and more ignorant; there was some-
thing of the /~e mont~e pervading the family
which led sometimes to those vagaries or hallu-
cinations which afforded many a derisive laugh
to the world without. But if in some instances
there was a slight falsetto tone, there were a
great deal of genuine faith and hope in the
idea, and a conviction that this was, in many
respects at least, a truer and better, as well as
happier, life than that of the unfortunates who,
according to our phraseology, were still in civi-
lization (for this was a term of somexvhat sinister
importwith us), andperhaps among the sen-
sitive and thoughtful carried to a foolish excess
a feeling of pity for the civilized, as we de-
noted those not yet emancipated and still strug-
gling with the evils of civilized life. At the
same time, let me say that it seems to me, as I
recollect, that the feeling with which the more
serious and thoughtful went into this enterprise
was very simple, and with no speci~i preten-
sion or assumption of superiority.
Their motive and object was to work out
for themselves a life better suited to their
tastes and feelings than xvas possible in the
common social arrangements, and which was
thus deemed more consonant to the real de-
mands of humanity.
The condition was somewhat like that of
travelers in a new and unknown country.
New vistas were constantly opening, and new
aspects developed. The effect was a sort of
exhilarating surprise and excitement, such as
comes in traveling among new scenes.
Much of the work the first summer was
making and getting in the hay from our very
extensive meadows and fields. This was pleas-
ant work, and I have very agreeable recollec-
tions of raking and otherwise working over
many an acre in close company with Haw-
thorne, with whom I first became acquainted
here. He, as I understood him, was attracted
to the enterprise by the hope of finding some
more satisfactory and congenial opportunity of
living according to his tastes and views than in
the common arrangements of society, and also
of uniting successfully manual with intellectual
work. But he was, I think, disappointed in
this, and found it not easy to combine writing
with severe bodily toil; and as the former
was so manifestly his vocation, he gave up
farm work at the end of the first summer, and
although he remained there some time longer,
Part of the following winter it was as a boarder,
not as a worker. The younger people, as usual,
had their admiration and their worships, and
Hawthorne was eminently fitted to be one of
these, partly from the prestige of his reputation,
partly from a real appreciation of his genius as
a writer, as well as from the impression made by
his remarkable and fine personal appearance,
in which manly vigor and beauty were com-
bined. He was shy and silent, and, though he
mingled with the rest of the company in the
evening gatherings in the hall and parlor of
the Hive, he was apparently self-absorbed, but
doubtless carefully observing and finding ma-
terial for his writing. The incident introduced
into The Blithedale Romance which is com-
monly considered as giving the result of his
life and observation at Brook Farm, the
drowning of one 6f his characters with its
ghastly features, did not really occur here, but
in another place at some distance, and really
had no connection. We had a good deal of
enjoyment in becoming acquainted with and
practising some of the industries of life un-
known to us before, and in this, besides the ex-
citement and novelty, was an accession of power
in the exercise of some branches of this know-
ledge, humble as they may seem. Besides the
agricultural knowledge and experience so in-
teresting to many of us, there was a feeling of
healthy reality in knowing and coming into
close contact with some of the coarser forms
of labor and drudgery which go to make up
that demd grind of life so distasteful to Mr.
Mantalini.
For instance, we spent some pleasant days
working in a peat meadow. Interesting, indeed,44 REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARM.
was the charming situation, surrounded as it was
by woods, and lying along the pretty Charles
River near Dedham, Massachusetts; the learn-
ing something of a very old, hut to us new, kind
of industry in the various operations of paring,
cutting, and stacking the peat.
I think Hawthorne was with us on some of
these occasions. Then there was the great
work of the wash-room, into which a large
number of our company were drawn or thrown
out, according to experience of fitness or the
needs of the household. I may perhaps be
allowed to dwell rather fully on some personal
experiences, and indulge in some egotistic
narration, on the ground of the magna pars
fui ; for, besides serving a while in the wash-
room, and pounding the clothes in a barrel or
hogshead with a sort of heavy wooden pestle,
in which process I learned something of the
mystery of that remarkable disappearance of
buttons from garments in passing through the
laundry, so inconvenient and vexatious to
bachelors, and wringing them out, not so
simple a process as it might seem, I had for a
considerable time the chief care of the clothes-
line and of han.ging out; for it.was a part of our
chivalry, in order to save labor and expense to
the women, for the men to take on themselves,
or have assigned to them, some of the harder and
more exposing portions of the work. I have
labored in the above-mentioned process of
pounding the clothes by the side of some
since well known and distinguished in the lit-
erary and political world. Mrs. Ripley, too,
whose most important function, besides a sort
of general superintendence, was teaching, but
whose zeal and energy led her to take part in
various industries, sometimes shared in the
labors of the wash-room.
Then there was the experience of milking
the cows, which could not be omitted by those
bent on agricultural education; so some of
us learned and practised the mystery of this
accomplishment, somewhat to our own sat-
isfaction, but apparently not so much so to
that of the animals. But in time matters ar-
ranged themselves, and we came to the con-
clusion, reluctantly perhaps, that the old Phil-
istine way might, after all, be the better, more
sensible, and more economical; viz., that work
requiring skill and experience should be ex-
ecuted by those who had had the proper train-
ing, rather than by amateurs, however our
culture might suffer by the loss. But let it not
be supposed that we had none but unskilled
workers. There were some men of skill and
experience in various departments, and inca-
pable amateurs could be easily reformed out of
office, as our system was flexible and readily
yielded to the demands of our household
work.
I may mention, as an instance of the way
in which we accommodated ourselves to our
needs, our arrangements of the waiting de-
partment. When our table had grown so
large that it was found inconvenient to pass
the dishes backward and forxvard, and as the
getting up from the table to help ourselves as
we might want anything seemed not quite or-
derly, a special corps of waiters was detailed
for this work, and to this were assigned some
of the younger and more ornamental members
of the company.
A difficulty we found in the attempt to
unite work of the head and the hands was the
loss of time in passing from one to the other,
especially for those engaged both in out-of-
door work or other manual labor and in teach-
ing. Thus, something of this kind might be
likely to occur: we might leave our hoeing,
weeding, haying, etc., and go from the fields
to the house for a lesson with some pupil who,
himself zealously engaged in hunting or trap-
ping woodchucks, muskrats, or squirrels, or like
absorbing occupation, might not be mindful of
the less important lesson.
The question is naturally asked, What were
the financial resources and whence the funds
for the daily support of the family? The pur-
chase of the estate, and the carrying on of
the farm and household were, at first, and for
a few months (through the first summer per-
haps), the private enterprise of Mr. Ripley;
and those of us who went there did so by
some arrangement with him, most of us work-
ing for and with him, and receiving in return
our daily support without any very definite or
exact bargain. There were also boarders and
scholars from whom, as well as from the sale
and use of some of the various products of the
farm milk, hay, vegetables, etc. the neces-
sary funds and means of support were derived.
After a while the company resolved them-
selves into a community, with a systematic
organization and with certain conditions, and
soon, 1 think, were regularly incorporated as
a sort of joint-stock company. In course of
time several trades were introduced, and with
the farm products contributed something to the
necessary fund; but the income at first, and
for some time, was mainly derived from board-
ers and scholars, some of the latter paying a
part or the whole of their board by their work
in various ways. This brief sketch of the ways
and means is very imperfect, as it is aside from
my general design, which is to give mainly my
personal reminiscences and impressions.
The situation of our farm. was very pleasant.
It lay between the towns of Dedham, Newton,
and West Roxbury, of which it formed a cor-
ner. About the house were wooded knolls,
fields, and hills sinking down into a wide REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARAL 45
meadow that extended to Charles River and
bordered on it. The place was well adapted
to some of our winter pastimes, sledding,
coasting, skating, of some of which scenes on
moonlight nights many of us have a vivid and
agreeable recollection.
Through the meadows ran the lively brook
from which we had our name; at a little dis-
tance from the houses was a fine upland pas-
ture which also sloped down to the river, and
was a favorite resort for sunset views and twi-
light walks.
But the farm, though having many pictur-
esque charms, was not adapted to be a very
profitable one, as much of the land was not
well suited for culture, consisting largely of
a meadow that bore little but coarse grass,
and pastures with rocky ledgespicturesque,
indeed, but clothed with a thin, hard soil. There
were beautiful and interesting localities in our
neighborhood, where we found pleasant walks,
or which we utilized for our rural f6tes.
The Hive, the original farm-house and first
residence of our company, was soon found in-
sufficient for our growing numbers, and con-
siderable additions were made from time to
time; but our numbers still increasing, the
Hive could not well hold us all, and we were
obliged to swarm. So the Fyrie, after much
planning and discussion, was decided on and
begun. It was planned with much care and
deliberation, but one might perhaps think that
more regard was had to esthetic considera-
tions than to those of ordinary comfort and
convenience. It was pitched high on a rock,
whence its name, and with fine picturesque
rocks all around; but to climb the shelf on
which it stood in wet, snowy, or scorching
weather was not easy or comfortable; neither
was the journey in the deep snow and mud
through which our path lay to and from the
Hive, where the operations of cooking and
eating were carried on. Besides, there was no
well, only a rain-water cistern, which want
involved the trouble of fetching water for some
purposes.
But the situation was charming, and very
near was a beautiful grove of pines so well
known to the inmates, habitu~s, and loving vis-
itors of Brook Farm where so many delight-
ful days were passed, and so many charming
fetes and entertainments of various kinds en-
joyed by those who had the luxury of being
idle. Many of our company had a fancy for
climbing these trees, and some, a still more
odd one of perching or roosting like birds or
squirrels on the highest branches. Besides the
Eyrie, there were added to our building, in
course of time, the Cottage, a pleasant and
pretty building where were held many of the
gatherings for amusements, and later the Pil-
\oL. XLV. 20.
grim House; still later, shops and buildings for
the various kinds of industry were introduced.
The Eyrie itself was a sort of romance of
houses: it had no kitchen or fireplace, and so
was dishonored or degraded by no culinary
uses. One striking thing about it was its
acoustic character: it seemed constructed on
some, I know not what, acoustic principles by
which the sounds of each and all the rooms
were, as it seemed, audible in every other; as
it was the place for musical instruction, and
the scene of the musical exercitations of troops
of young beginners, one can, or perhaps can-
not, imagine the discomfort of this remarkable
property in this singularly constructed build-
ing; and though I bad at one time a charming
room there, I have not very charming recol-
lections of the dreary monotony of scales and
exercises through the long, sleepy summer days.
I have some pleasant recollections of the
large parlor in the Eyrie, which was designed
with special reference to our evening gather-
ings of various kinds for amusement or im-
provement. We had many visitors from the
outside world of civiliza/lon, among them some
persons of interest and distinction.
Miss Margare~t Fuller (afterward Countess
Ossoli) was one of these, and was often there
as a friend of the Ripleys and of others of the
company, as well as from interest in the en-
terprise and sympathy with its objects. She
was to us an interesting and instructive visi-
tor, and would sometimes hold conversations,
a favorite mode of teaching with her. Then,
too, among our visitors was Orestes A. Brown-
son, whose active brain led him to the vari-
ous new movements of which the air was full
at that time, and finally to a very old institu-
tion. He was also a friend of George Rip-
leywhether then a Romanist I cannot say.
One of the visitors best known to the world
was Robert Owen of Scotland. He was nat-
urally interested fri our experiment, as he had
been engaged in something of a co6perative
or communistic character at New Lanark,
Scotland. I recollect that I received an agree-
able impression of his great simplicity and trans-
parency of character, as well as his earnest-
ness and warm humanity. Then Miss Frances
Ostinelhi, afterward well known in opera as
Madame Biscacciarti, spent some time with us.
Her fine voice in its youthful purity and fresh-
ness was a great delight to us, as her youth-
ful beauty and charm were very fascinating to
some of the younger members of our com-
pany. Then there were the Hutchinsons, a
family well known at that time, and a marvel
for their sxveet singing, and this especially in
the interests of antislavery and temperance.
The accord of their voices was very pleasing.
A great charm of their singing was a sort of146 REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARM.
wild freshness, as if brought from their native
woods and mountains, and their earnest interest
in the objects that formed so much the theme
of their songs.
We had in our vicinity some agreeable
neighbors: among these Theodore Parker, who
was a personal friend of Mr. Ripley and others
of us, whose church some of us attended, and
who often came to see us; for though he did not
enter fully into the idea and plans of the Asso-
ciation, he of course looked with generous in-
terest on all that promised benefit to human-
ity. There were also near us other families to
whose hroad and liberal sympathy, generous
assistance, and genial society we were much
indehted.
Besides, there came from time to time to
see us reformers of a humbler or milder
stamp, with various schemes and dogmas for
reforming society: vegetarians, come-outers
from Church and State, to some of whom no
doubt the former was, in the rather strong
language current at the time, the Mother of
Abominations. Then there were long-bearded
reformers dressed all in white, which was in
itself a protest against something, I hardly
know what; for a very liberal hospitality was
exercised from the beginning, for which I think
great credit is due to Mr. Ripley.
There were also those who came to observe
and make trial of our mode of life, or as can-
didates for admission on a sort of probation;
for, in the narrowness of our means and accom-
modations, we could not take all that offered
themselves. Mr. Ripley, who, as I have said,
was somewhat sanguine in his way of looking at
persons and things, would bring us from time to
time accounts of applicants that looked to him
very desirable, but who on further considera-
tion were not accepted; for a very important
question in regard to those who wished to join
us was the Shylock one, Is he a good
man? and this in the Shylock, and not in
the ethical sense, and Is he sufficient? and
perhaps our applicants were not so apt to have
the former sort of goodness as the other, that
of a more transcendent kind.
Our enterprise attracted a good deal of at-
tention and interest, and we certainly had the
satisfaction of being much talked about, for
good or for evilchiefly the latter. Indeed,
it seems strange that it should have been looked
upon so unfavorably, and have excited, I may
almost say, such bitter hostility.
If the world chose to think us very silly and
childish and ridiculous in our mistakes, hallu-
cinations, and vagaries, and that we had a
foolish pretension and self-complacency, it
was fair and reasonable enough in them to
have their laugh at us; but these follies of
ours, if they were so, were very harmless, good-
natured, and well-intentioned, and with these
there were a real earnestness of philanthropy
and worthiness of purpose, which certainly de-
served some respect, and were not properly
marks for ridicule and malice. This prejudice
was no doubt due in some measure to false
or exaggerated accounts of our doings which
were circulated and, naturally enough, in many
cases innocently believed. There were criti-
cisms on our fare, which was sometimes not very
sumptuous, and on our style of living, which
was not very elegant. But we did not go there
for luxury, and if there was no elegance, there
was certainly a good degree of refinement
as far as consistent with our conditions. As an~
instance of this I may mention that the attempt
was made to give, as far as possible, separate
rooms to those who desired it. One very cur-
rent and common misapprehension was that
the members of our company were agreed, for
the most part in views of extreme radicalism
and hostility to the common beliefs and insti-
tutions of society. But in fact no such uniform-
ity existed; on the contrary, there was a great
variety of shades of opinion and feeling.
Indeed, there were some who might be con-
sidered quite conservative, and often children
from families of conservative parents, who were
well enough acquainted with the leading per-
sons to have confidence that they would get
no harm. Some of the stories to which I have
alluded related to the way in which Sunday
was regarded and treated stories of disrespect
and desecratioii of the day, as it was consid-
ered, which shocked some persons, but I think
without much ground. Quite a number in-
clined to go to church, some to Boston, some
to Theodore Parkers church, which was at
that time in West Roxhury. Others chose to
spend the day walking in the woods or other
beautiful localities about us. But if not ob-
served with much rigor, it was generally, as
far as I recollect, a (luiet and peaceful day,
and this was in accordance with the wishes
and tastes of the principals of the company. At
one time, I recollect, Mr. Ripley gave on Sun-
day afternoons some account or explanation
of Kants philosophy to those who wished to
hear him. It should be considered that great
freedom existed and pervaded our mode of liv-
ing, and the company in general did not feel
responsible for the eccentricities of some indi-
viduals, or authorized to interfere with them,
except perhaps in extreme cases.
One of the interesting features of our life
was the pleasant and favorable influence with
which the young were surrounded. With great
freedom in the modes of instruction and dis-
cipline, there was no lack of thoroughness, for
the most part; and, what was important, there
was an inspiring influence either in the circum REkUNISCENCES OF BROOK FARM. 47
stances surrounding, or in the modes of impart-
ing knowledge of a very varied character in
an informal and genial way, by a variety of
teachers with whom the pupils were thrown into
near and friendly relations. In our easy way
the teachers and pupils interchanged func-
tions, the pupils becoming teachers and vice
versa. Some of the pupils have become well
known in various ways. General Frank Bar-
low, so honorably distinguished in our civil
war, and politically since, was then but a
voun g boy. George Weeks, who went from
us to the Williamstown college, where he
graduated with honor, became a lawyer, and
also had some judicial position. At the first
sound of the call to arms to suppress the Re-
bellion, he joined the volunteers, I think as
captain in the First Massachusetts Regiment,
distinguished himself as an officer, and after a
gallant career died or was mortally wounded
on the field, in some battle of western Vir-
ginia, having risen to the rank of general.
Then there was George William Curtis, of
late so prominent in the literary and political
world, and a number of others since esteemed
and honored in the community.
Isaac Hecker was there for some time, at-
tracted by the object and character of the
enterprise. He afterward went over to the
Romish Church, where he has been a good
deal distinguished, and active in the formation
of a new order called the Paulist Fathers.
John L. Dwight, so well known to the musi-
cal world for his zeal and services in the cause
of the higher music in our neighborhood,
came early with the others of his family, and
remained a long time, till the final abandon-
ment of the enterprise. Of course his taste and
zeal in the interest of the best music could not
fail to be of very great value in our commu-
nity, among whose objects artistic cultivation
held a high place. There were many others
whose memory and friendship are sacredly
and lovingly cherished by many of us, but
this seems hardly a place to give publicity to
their names.
I have spoken of the gatherings at the Eyrie,
where were passed many pleasant and profit-
able evenings; when some lion of special note
caine along, it often was an occasion for dis-
course or conversation on his specialty. The
young people had a fancy for sitting on the
floor or on the stairs. The scene was pretty
and interesting.
In the evenings of our washing-day the fold-
ing of the clothes gave occasion for pleasant
and social meetings.
An amusing and rather odd practice was
the frequent writing of notes among those
who were constantly meeting each other for
work, etc. Perhaps it was that the various
sentiments could not be so well expressed viva
voce, and pen and paper gave better oppor-
tunity for more full and considered explanatory
statements and epilogues, as needed, than the
winged words of speech. One of our number,
quite a singular character, had the habit of
adIninistering advice and reproof, of which
he was rather lavish, on little scraps of paper,
which he left on the floor or ground where
the objects of his censure might find them.
The notes I mentioned above were generally
put on the table at the l)late of the persons for
whom they were designed. These may seem
poor and trifling details, but some of those who
were at Brook Farm may be pleased to recall
the amusing, the trifling details and incidents
of our life. But I must not omit among our
social pleasures the gatherings in the barn in
summer for preparing vegetables for the
market, and other social work. Those who
have not had the experience cannot know
what a stately room for company a large barn
is, with its lofty roof the sweet scent of hay
for perfume, the twittering of the swalloxvs
overhead for music, and the cool breezes pass-
ing so freely through. Our meetings here were
at times enlivened by what we pleased our-
selves with thinking was wit. Various classes
were from time to time formed for reading and
studying together. One I recollect was a very
agieeable opportunity of reading Dante in the
original (we read in turn, the whole or nearly
the whole) with a number of cultivated, in-
telligent, and appreciative persons, those of
better knowledge of the language helping the
others. Mrs. Ripley was one of this class. In
the summer we often had our readings out of
doors, sometimes on one of those pleasant
wooded knolls I have mentioned.
But I find that the limits to which I must
confine myself will not allow me to speak of
many of the varied aspects and features of the
life at Brook Farm, or to give any detailed ac-
count of its course, progress, or final abandon-
ment, which, besides, would be beyond the
scope of this paper, professing as it does to
give my personal reminiscencesin a some-
what discursive manner.
And now I wish to express for myself the
very agreeable and, more than this, very af-
fectionate remembrance of this rich and inter-
esting episode of our lives, which feeling, I be-
lieve, is shared by many others. There were,
no doubt, some dissatisfied or discontented on
one ground or another, and, of course many
shortcomings and imperfections in carrying
out the idea and professed object of the in-
stitution. But I fully believe that many, very
many, who were there look back upon it as
one of the most profitable as well as delight-
ful parts of their lives, and with warm feelings 148 G. P. BRADFORD.
of affection and respect for its objects, and
on the whole for the way in which the at-
tempt was made to realize them. To many
young people especially it was an opportunity
of great and lasting benefit as well as of en-
jovment. To such persons of high aims and
aspirations, but whose life had been straitened
and hampered by unfavorable conditions, this
opportunity of a life freed from many of the
embarrassing conventions of society, and xvhere
feelings of humanity, sympathy, and respect
for all conditions of life and society were
cherished and professed as the basis of the as-
sociation, in habitual intercourse, too, with
persons of cultivation and refinement, of varied
acquaintance with society and the world, sur-
rounded by those of friendly and kindly char-
acter and of aims at least theoretically humane
and unselfish, to many of whom, too, they
were drawn by the elective affinities into close
and confidential intimacy, was a very valu-
able and precious one, and was felt and ap-
preciated as such by them at the time, and
remembered with a tender and grateful inter-
est. And some there are who still revere all
the dreams of their youth, not only those that
led them there, but those also that hovered
around them while there and gave a color of
romance to their life, and some of whom per-
haps still cherish the hope that in some form
or mode of association, or of co6perative in-
dustry, may be found a more equal distribu-
tion of the advantages, privileges, and culture
of society some mitigation of its great and
painful inequalities, a remedy, or at least an
abatement, of its evils and sufferings. But it
may be thought that I have dwelt too much on
the pleasantness of the life at Brook Farm, and
the advantages in the way of education, etc., to
the young people, which is all very well, but not
quite peculiar to this institution, and some may
ask what it really accomplished of permanent
value in the direction of the ideas with which it
was started. This I do not feel that I can es-
timate or speak of adequately; neither is it
within the scope of this paper. But I would in-
dicate in a few words some of the influences
and results that I conceive to belong to it. The
opportunity of very varied culture, intellec-
tual, moral, and practical; the broad and hu-
mane feelings professed and cherished toward
all classes of men; the mutual respect for the
character, mind, and feelings of persons brought
up in the most dissimilar conditions of living
and culture, which grew up from the free com-
mingling of the very various elements of our
company; the understanding and appreciation
of the toils, self-denial, privations which are
the lot to which so many are doomed, and a
sympathy with them, left on many a deep and
abiding effect. This intercourse or commin-
gling of which I have spoken was very simple
and easy; when the artificial and conventional
barriers were thrown down it was felt how
petty and poor they are; they were easily for-
gotten, and the natural attractions asserted
themselves. So I cannot but think that this
brief and imperfect experiment, with the
thought and discussion that grew out of it,
had no small influence in teaching more im-
pressively the relation of universal brother-
hood, and the ties that bind all to all, a deeper
feeling of the rights and claims of others, and
so in diffusing, enlarging deepening and giv-
ing emphasis to the growing spirit of true
democracy.
G. P. BRADFORD.
fl ENTLEST of souls, of genius bright,
~ Wavering, but steadfast for the right;
Doubtful on many a trifling theme,
Faithful to every noble dream,
Spotless in life, and pure in heart,
Loving the best in books and art.
All secret nooks of wood and field
To him their hidden treasures yield.
Anxious about each devious way
As oer the earth his footsteps stray,
He started on the heavenly route
XVithout a question or a doubt.
George P. Bradford.
George Bradford Bar//elf.

148 G. P. BRADFORD.
of affection and respect for its objects, and
on the whole for the way in which the at-
tempt was made to realize them. To many
young people especially it was an opportunity
of great and lasting benefit as well as of en-
jovment. To such persons of high aims and
aspirations, but whose life had been straitened
and hampered by unfavorable conditions, this
opportunity of a life freed from many of the
embarrassing conventions of society, and xvhere
feelings of humanity, sympathy, and respect
for all conditions of life and society were
cherished and professed as the basis of the as-
sociation, in habitual intercourse, too, with
persons of cultivation and refinement, of varied
acquaintance with society and the world, sur-
rounded by those of friendly and kindly char-
acter and of aims at least theoretically humane
and unselfish, to many of whom, too, they
were drawn by the elective affinities into close
and confidential intimacy, was a very valu-
able and precious one, and was felt and ap-
preciated as such by them at the time, and
remembered with a tender and grateful inter-
est. And some there are who still revere all
the dreams of their youth, not only those that
led them there, but those also that hovered
around them while there and gave a color of
romance to their life, and some of whom per-
haps still cherish the hope that in some form
or mode of association, or of co6perative in-
dustry, may be found a more equal distribu-
tion of the advantages, privileges, and culture
of society some mitigation of its great and
painful inequalities, a remedy, or at least an
abatement, of its evils and sufferings. But it
may be thought that I have dwelt too much on
the pleasantness of the life at Brook Farm, and
the advantages in the way of education, etc., to
the young people, which is all very well, but not
quite peculiar to this institution, and some may
ask what it really accomplished of permanent
value in the direction of the ideas with which it
was started. This I do not feel that I can es-
timate or speak of adequately; neither is it
within the scope of this paper. But I would in-
dicate in a few words some of the influences
and results that I conceive to belong to it. The
opportunity of very varied culture, intellec-
tual, moral, and practical; the broad and hu-
mane feelings professed and cherished toward
all classes of men; the mutual respect for the
character, mind, and feelings of persons brought
up in the most dissimilar conditions of living
and culture, which grew up from the free com-
mingling of the very various elements of our
company; the understanding and appreciation
of the toils, self-denial, privations which are
the lot to which so many are doomed, and a
sympathy with them, left on many a deep and
abiding effect. This intercourse or commin-
gling of which I have spoken was very simple
and easy; when the artificial and conventional
barriers were thrown down it was felt how
petty and poor they are; they were easily for-
gotten, and the natural attractions asserted
themselves. So I cannot but think that this
brief and imperfect experiment, with the
thought and discussion that grew out of it,
had no small influence in teaching more im-
pressively the relation of universal brother-
hood, and the ties that bind all to all, a deeper
feeling of the rights and claims of others, and
so in diffusing, enlarging deepening and giv-
ing emphasis to the growing spirit of true
democracy.
G. P. BRADFORD.
fl ENTLEST of souls, of genius bright,
~ Wavering, but steadfast for the right;
Doubtful on many a trifling theme,
Faithful to every noble dream,
Spotless in life, and pure in heart,
Loving the best in books and art.
All secret nooks of wood and field
To him their hidden treasures yield.
Anxious about each devious way
As oer the earth his footsteps stray,
He started on the heavenly route
XVithout a question or a doubt.
George P. Bradford.
George Bradford Bar//elf.TOPICS OF THE TIME.
A Great Citizen.
O Fall the praise that has been uttered in memory of
George \Villiam Curtis,editor, author, orator, true
gentle-man, the highest and most significant is the
praise accorded him as one of the greatest citizens of
the republic. It is true that the loss to the American
people of Curtis the writer, of Curtis the orator, the
vanishing of that exquisite and lofty personality from
current literature and from the modern platform,is
a most deplorable event; but it is not the calamity that
is suffered in the sudden cessation of the disinterdsted
and patriotic activities of one of our few really influential
critics of public events, one of the few leaders of public
thought and action.
For, strange as it seemed to those educated in a dif-
ferent school, this modest, musical-voiced, courteous,
scholarly persuader was an element of which the
practical politicians of both parties learned that it
was necessary to take account. He could easily suffer
the gibes of men whose ideas of government were based
upon opportunities for cash returns or of personal ag-
grandizement, knowing as he did the purity of his own
motives, as well as the telling effect of his well-deliv-
ered blows.
In American citizenship Curtis stood for the theory
as little disputed as it is rarely acted upon by those in
power that government, city, state, national, must
not be for a ring, or for a faction, but truly and absolutely
for the people. He believed that in a political contest
there were no victors in thebarbaric sense; and that,
therefore, there were no spoils to divide, but only
duties to distribute, policies to be carried out, and al-
ways the people to be served.
The death of Curtis should not carry dismay into the
ranks of his comrades and followers in the great cause
of geod government in which his brilliant abilities and
pure fame were so completely enlisted. It should rather
give new sacredness to that cause; it should enlist larger
numbers in the warfare; and be the occasion of greater
and still more effective zeal. His ideal of the public ser-
vice was not a vain and chimerical one. It was prac-
tical in the truest sense; it is attainable; antI upon its
accomplishment depends the very life of the republic.
The Massachusetta Corrupt Practicea Law.
MASSACHUSETTS continues to hold the lead among
American States in the movement for electoral reform.
U was the first State to enact an Australian ballot-law,
which has served as a model for similar laws in many
other States, and it has the honor also of enacting the
most stringent, comprehensive, and carefully considered
Corrupt Practices Act yet made a law in this country.
Other States New York, Michigan, and Colorado
have preceded it in point of time in passing such laws,
but none of them has a law which can bear favorable
See biographical sketch of Mr. Curtis, by S. S. Conant, in
THE CENTURY for February 1883, in connection with which the
engraving by Mr. Cole, reprinted in this number, first appeared.
comparison with that passed by the Massachusetts
legislature at its last session.
We do not wish to lac understood by this praise of
the law as pronouncing it a perfect statute. On the con-
trary, it has some defects which are likely seriously to
impair its usefulness as a means of suppressing the un-
due and corrupt use of money in nominations and elec-
tions. Yet it has few-er such defects than any other
similar American law, and it has many merits which no
other such American law possesses. As it is likely to
prove a model for other laws, it is worth while to con-
sider somewhat in detail its provisions.
It requires all political or campaign committees, or
combinations of three or more persons who shall assist
or promote the success or defeat of a political party or
principle in a public election, or shall aid or take part
in the nomination, election, or defeat of a candidate for
public office, to have a treasurer, who shall keep a de-
tailed account of all money, or the equivalent of money,
received by, or promised to, the committee, and of all
expenditures, disbursements, and promises of payment
or disbursement made by the committee or any person
acting under its authority or in its behalf. Every such
treasurer who shall receive or expend twenty dollars in
money or its equivalent is required to file, within thirty
days after election, a statement setting forth all the
receipts, expenditures, disbursements, and liabilities
of the committee, and of every other officer and other
person acting under its authority and in its behalf, such
statement to include tlae amount in eacla case received,
the name of the person or committee from whom it was
received, and the amount of every expenditure or dis-
bursement, and the name of the person or committee to
whom the expenditure or disbursement was made.
In every instance the date of the receipt or disburse-
ment is to be given, so far as practicable. The statement
must also include the date and amount of every exist-
ing unfulfilled promise ur liability, both to and from
such committee, remaining uncanceled and in force at
the time the statement is made, with the name of the
persota or committee involved, and the purpose clearly
stated for which the promise or liability was made or
incurred.
It will be seen at a glance that these provisions
cover the monetary and other actions of the committee
so completely that it will be exceedingly difficult for
illicit conduct of any kind to escape full publicity ofter
the campaign is ended. In regard to persons other
than committees, including candidates, who receive or
disburse twenty dollars, a similar sworn statement is
required as from the treasurers of committees, except
that candidates may pay their own personal expenses
for traveling, stationery, postage, printing of circulars,
etc., and need not include such expenditures in their
sworn returns. All persons are forbidden to give any
money or other valuable thing, or to promise any
office, directly or indirectly, to aid or promote their
nomination or election to any office, and all demands
upon candidates for contributions are forbidden; but
149

EditorialEditorialGeorge William Curtis149

TOPICS OF THE TIME.
A Great Citizen.
O Fall the praise that has been uttered in memory of
George \Villiam Curtis,editor, author, orator, true
gentle-man, the highest and most significant is the
praise accorded him as one of the greatest citizens of
the republic. It is true that the loss to the American
people of Curtis the writer, of Curtis the orator, the
vanishing of that exquisite and lofty personality from
current literature and from the modern platform,is
a most deplorable event; but it is not the calamity that
is suffered in the sudden cessation of the disinterdsted
and patriotic activities of one of our few really influential
critics of public events, one of the few leaders of public
thought and action.
For, strange as it seemed to those educated in a dif-
ferent school, this modest, musical-voiced, courteous,
scholarly persuader was an element of which the
practical politicians of both parties learned that it
was necessary to take account. He could easily suffer
the gibes of men whose ideas of government were based
upon opportunities for cash returns or of personal ag-
grandizement, knowing as he did the purity of his own
motives, as well as the telling effect of his well-deliv-
ered blows.
In American citizenship Curtis stood for the theory
as little disputed as it is rarely acted upon by those in
power that government, city, state, national, must
not be for a ring, or for a faction, but truly and absolutely
for the people. He believed that in a political contest
there were no victors in thebarbaric sense; and that,
therefore, there were no spoils to divide, but only
duties to distribute, policies to be carried out, and al-
ways the people to be served.
The death of Curtis should not carry dismay into the
ranks of his comrades and followers in the great cause
of geod government in which his brilliant abilities and
pure fame were so completely enlisted. It should rather
give new sacredness to that cause; it should enlist larger
numbers in the warfare; and be the occasion of greater
and still more effective zeal. His ideal of the public ser-
vice was not a vain and chimerical one. It was prac-
tical in the truest sense; it is attainable; antI upon its
accomplishment depends the very life of the republic.
The Massachusetta Corrupt Practicea Law.
MASSACHUSETTS continues to hold the lead among
American States in the movement for electoral reform.
U was the first State to enact an Australian ballot-law,
which has served as a model for similar laws in many
other States, and it has the honor also of enacting the
most stringent, comprehensive, and carefully considered
Corrupt Practices Act yet made a law in this country.
Other States New York, Michigan, and Colorado
have preceded it in point of time in passing such laws,
but none of them has a law which can bear favorable
See biographical sketch of Mr. Curtis, by S. S. Conant, in
THE CENTURY for February 1883, in connection with which the
engraving by Mr. Cole, reprinted in this number, first appeared.
comparison with that passed by the Massachusetts
legislature at its last session.
We do not wish to lac understood by this praise of
the law as pronouncing it a perfect statute. On the con-
trary, it has some defects which are likely seriously to
impair its usefulness as a means of suppressing the un-
due and corrupt use of money in nominations and elec-
tions. Yet it has few-er such defects than any other
similar American law, and it has many merits which no
other such American law possesses. As it is likely to
prove a model for other laws, it is worth while to con-
sider somewhat in detail its provisions.
It requires all political or campaign committees, or
combinations of three or more persons who shall assist
or promote the success or defeat of a political party or
principle in a public election, or shall aid or take part
in the nomination, election, or defeat of a candidate for
public office, to have a treasurer, who shall keep a de-
tailed account of all money, or the equivalent of money,
received by, or promised to, the committee, and of all
expenditures, disbursements, and promises of payment
or disbursement made by the committee or any person
acting under its authority or in its behalf. Every such
treasurer who shall receive or expend twenty dollars in
money or its equivalent is required to file, within thirty
days after election, a statement setting forth all the
receipts, expenditures, disbursements, and liabilities
of the committee, and of every other officer and other
person acting under its authority and in its behalf, such
statement to include tlae amount in eacla case received,
the name of the person or committee from whom it was
received, and the amount of every expenditure or dis-
bursement, and the name of the person or committee to
whom the expenditure or disbursement was made.
In every instance the date of the receipt or disburse-
ment is to be given, so far as practicable. The statement
must also include the date and amount of every exist-
ing unfulfilled promise ur liability, both to and from
such committee, remaining uncanceled and in force at
the time the statement is made, with the name of the
persota or committee involved, and the purpose clearly
stated for which the promise or liability was made or
incurred.
It will be seen at a glance that these provisions
cover the monetary and other actions of the committee
so completely that it will be exceedingly difficult for
illicit conduct of any kind to escape full publicity ofter
the campaign is ended. In regard to persons other
than committees, including candidates, who receive or
disburse twenty dollars, a similar sworn statement is
required as from the treasurers of committees, except
that candidates may pay their own personal expenses
for traveling, stationery, postage, printing of circulars,
etc., and need not include such expenditures in their
sworn returns. All persons are forbidden to give any
money or other valuable thing, or to promise any
office, directly or indirectly, to aid or promote their
nomination or election to any office, and all demands
upon candidates for contributions are forbidden; but
149

EditorialEditorialThe Massachusetts Corrupt Practices Law149-150

TOPICS OF THE TIME.
A Great Citizen.
O Fall the praise that has been uttered in memory of
George \Villiam Curtis,editor, author, orator, true
gentle-man, the highest and most significant is the
praise accorded him as one of the greatest citizens of
the republic. It is true that the loss to the American
people of Curtis the writer, of Curtis the orator, the
vanishing of that exquisite and lofty personality from
current literature and from the modern platform,is
a most deplorable event; but it is not the calamity that
is suffered in the sudden cessation of the disinterdsted
and patriotic activities of one of our few really influential
critics of public events, one of the few leaders of public
thought and action.
For, strange as it seemed to those educated in a dif-
ferent school, this modest, musical-voiced, courteous,
scholarly persuader was an element of which the
practical politicians of both parties learned that it
was necessary to take account. He could easily suffer
the gibes of men whose ideas of government were based
upon opportunities for cash returns or of personal ag-
grandizement, knowing as he did the purity of his own
motives, as well as the telling effect of his well-deliv-
ered blows.
In American citizenship Curtis stood for the theory
as little disputed as it is rarely acted upon by those in
power that government, city, state, national, must
not be for a ring, or for a faction, but truly and absolutely
for the people. He believed that in a political contest
there were no victors in thebarbaric sense; and that,
therefore, there were no spoils to divide, but only
duties to distribute, policies to be carried out, and al-
ways the people to be served.
The death of Curtis should not carry dismay into the
ranks of his comrades and followers in the great cause
of geod government in which his brilliant abilities and
pure fame were so completely enlisted. It should rather
give new sacredness to that cause; it should enlist larger
numbers in the warfare; and be the occasion of greater
and still more effective zeal. His ideal of the public ser-
vice was not a vain and chimerical one. It was prac-
tical in the truest sense; it is attainable; antI upon its
accomplishment depends the very life of the republic.
The Massachusetta Corrupt Practicea Law.
MASSACHUSETTS continues to hold the lead among
American States in the movement for electoral reform.
U was the first State to enact an Australian ballot-law,
which has served as a model for similar laws in many
other States, and it has the honor also of enacting the
most stringent, comprehensive, and carefully considered
Corrupt Practices Act yet made a law in this country.
Other States New York, Michigan, and Colorado
have preceded it in point of time in passing such laws,
but none of them has a law which can bear favorable
See biographical sketch of Mr. Curtis, by S. S. Conant, in
THE CENTURY for February 1883, in connection with which the
engraving by Mr. Cole, reprinted in this number, first appeared.
comparison with that passed by the Massachusetts
legislature at its last session.
We do not wish to lac understood by this praise of
the law as pronouncing it a perfect statute. On the con-
trary, it has some defects which are likely seriously to
impair its usefulness as a means of suppressing the un-
due and corrupt use of money in nominations and elec-
tions. Yet it has few-er such defects than any other
similar American law, and it has many merits which no
other such American law possesses. As it is likely to
prove a model for other laws, it is worth while to con-
sider somewhat in detail its provisions.
It requires all political or campaign committees, or
combinations of three or more persons who shall assist
or promote the success or defeat of a political party or
principle in a public election, or shall aid or take part
in the nomination, election, or defeat of a candidate for
public office, to have a treasurer, who shall keep a de-
tailed account of all money, or the equivalent of money,
received by, or promised to, the committee, and of all
expenditures, disbursements, and promises of payment
or disbursement made by the committee or any person
acting under its authority or in its behalf. Every such
treasurer who shall receive or expend twenty dollars in
money or its equivalent is required to file, within thirty
days after election, a statement setting forth all the
receipts, expenditures, disbursements, and liabilities
of the committee, and of every other officer and other
person acting under its authority and in its behalf, such
statement to include tlae amount in eacla case received,
the name of the person or committee from whom it was
received, and the amount of every expenditure or dis-
bursement, and the name of the person or committee to
whom the expenditure or disbursement was made.
In every instance the date of the receipt or disburse-
ment is to be given, so far as practicable. The statement
must also include the date and amount of every exist-
ing unfulfilled promise ur liability, both to and from
such committee, remaining uncanceled and in force at
the time the statement is made, with the name of the
persota or committee involved, and the purpose clearly
stated for which the promise or liability was made or
incurred.
It will be seen at a glance that these provisions
cover the monetary and other actions of the committee
so completely that it will be exceedingly difficult for
illicit conduct of any kind to escape full publicity ofter
the campaign is ended. In regard to persons other
than committees, including candidates, who receive or
disburse twenty dollars, a similar sworn statement is
required as from the treasurers of committees, except
that candidates may pay their own personal expenses
for traveling, stationery, postage, printing of circulars,
etc., and need not include such expenditures in their
sworn returns. All persons are forbidden to give any
money or other valuable thing, or to promise any
office, directly or indirectly, to aid or promote their
nomination or election to any office, and all demands
upon candidates for contributions are forbidden; but
149TOPICS OF THE TIME.
any candidate may make a voluntary payment of
money, or a voluntary and unconditional promise of
payment of money, to a political committee for the
promotion of the principles of the party which the
committee represents, and for the general purposes
of the committee.
We regard this last quoted provision as the chief de-
fect in the measure. Under it any candidate may give
a large lump sum, which, though professedly given
voluntarily, will really be the price which he will pay
for his nomination. The law seems thus to sanction
and legalize the assessment evil, which is one of the
most objectionable in modern politics. To be sure,
the report of the committee will show the exact amount
of this contribution, and the exact uses to which it is
put, but experience with the New York law has shown
that candidates do not shrink from this exposure so
far as it reveals the sums which they give. Candidates
will he forced, not directly, but none the less surely, to
pay the expenses of the campaign, and as no limit is
placed upon these, it will follow under the new law, as
under the old, that in many cases the man who pays
the highest price for the nomination will be likely to
get it.
The provision which permits candidates to incur
perannal expenses without including such in their re-
turns is also susceptible of abuse. In striking at the
corrupt uses of money in our elections we cannot do
better than to follow the English statute, for that has
accomplished completely what we are striving for the
annihilation of the evils. The English act compels
the complete publication of every penny received and
spent, personally or otherwise, in promoting an elec--
don, and it fixes a maximum limit in each case beyond
which the total expenditure must not be carried. Until
we carry our laws to the same extreme, we must be
prepared to see them only partly successful in practice,
merely restricting the evils somewhat, but not eradicat-
ing them.
Road-Building Exhibit at Chicago.
ALTHOUGH the advocates of good roads were un-
able to induce Congress at its last session to pass a bill
appropriating one million dollars for a special building
to be used for a comprehensive road-building exhibit
at the Worlds Fair in Chicago, they are not discour-
aged. They propose to renew their request at the pres-
ent session, and though they may not succeed in getting
it granted, they declare their purpose of making an ex-
hibit. If they cannot get a building, they will use tents,
or some other inexpensive method of inclosure, and
they will have a mile or more of roadways in various
asages of construction.
This is a patriotic determination. That there is a
great and steadily increasing interest in the subject of
good roads was shown in a very striking manner by
the memorial u-hich the advocates of the proposed ex-
hibit sent to Congress. It was a pamphlet of more than
one hundred pages, and contained letters of approval
from the President and several members of his cabi-
net, a large number of senators and congressmen, the
governors of nearly all the States, the mayors of many
See also Our Common Roads~ in THE CENTURY fur April,
i892.
leading cities, prominent army officers, and the presi-
dents of our leading colleges. All these persons ex-
pressed hearty sympathy with the movement, and
declared their conviction that no more worthy or pa-
triotic cause could be represented at the Fair. These
letters, accompanied as they were by a great mass of
favorable newspaper comment, gave most encouraging
evidence that public sentiment in all parts of the coun-
try has been aroused to the pressing need of road re-
form, and to the importance of using the best means
for bringing it about.
What the advocates of good roads propose is a com-
prehensive exhibit of all that is known of scientific
road-building, which will serve as a school of instruc-
tion to the thousands of Americans who will visit the
Fair. They will give sample sections of the best road-
construction in this country and in Europe. They
will have skilled workmen actually engaged in con-
srru~ting sections of the various kinds of roads, the
most expensive and the cheapest as well, and will have
competent engineers and chemists in attendance to ex-
plain the process of building the roads, constructing ar-
tificial stone, and preparing cements. All machinery
used in the work, and the various kinds of material, will
be seen in daily practical operation. In short, the visitor
who wishes to see not only what a scientific road is,
but the exact way in which it is built, will have full
opportunity of doing so.
It is scarcely necessary to comment upon the great
public value of such an exhibit. Thousands of men in
all parts of the land will have their interest in the sub-
ject not only aroused to fresh activity, but directed in
intelligent channels toward the accomplishment of the
most desirable results. Road-building will receive a
truly national impulse, with the ultimate effect of in-
calculably increasing the happinessbas well as the pros-
perity of the whole people. It is not improbable that
the people of the United States, now slowly awaking
to the fact that they are more than one hundred years
behind other civilized countries in the science of road-
building, may date the general beginning of their de-
termination to catch up with the rest of the-world in
this matter from the Worlds Fair of I893.
Thist we are far behind other nations in the construc-
tion of our highways no one denies, but few persons
realize how long the older countries of the world have
been engaged in the work of scientific road-building.
In that delightful book, Youngs Travels in France,
we come almost constantly upon such tributes to the
roads of that country as the following, under date of
June 9, I787:
The immense view from the descent to Douzenac is
equally magnificent. To all this is added the finest road
in the world, everywhere formed in the most perfect man-
ner, and kept in the highest preservation, like the well-
ordered alley of a garden, without dust, sand, stones, or
inequality, firm and level, of pounded granite, and traced
with such a perpetual command of prospect, that had the
engineer no other object in view, he could not have exe-
cuted it with a more finished taste.
That was written over a hundred years ago about a
road which had been built long before, yet it will stand
to-day as a perfect (lescription of the best road which
modern science is able to construct. What a civilizing
influence such a road must be in any country through
which it runs!
150

TOPICS OF THE TIME.
any candidate may make a voluntary payment of
money, or a voluntary and unconditional promise of
payment of money, to a political committee for the
promotion of the principles of the party which the
committee represents, and for the general purposes
of the committee.
We regard this last quoted provision as the chief de-
fect in the measure. Under it any candidate may give
a large lump sum, which, though professedly given
voluntarily, will really be the price which he will pay
for his nomination. The law seems thus to sanction
and legalize the assessment evil, which is one of the
most objectionable in modern politics. To be sure,
the report of the committee will show the exact amount
of this contribution, and the exact uses to which it is
put, but experience with the New York law has shown
that candidates do not shrink from this exposure so
far as it reveals the sums which they give. Candidates
will he forced, not directly, but none the less surely, to
pay the expenses of the campaign, and as no limit is
placed upon these, it will follow under the new law, as
under the old, that in many cases the man who pays
the highest price for the nomination will be likely to
get it.
The provision which permits candidates to incur
perannal expenses without including such in their re-
turns is also susceptible of abuse. In striking at the
corrupt uses of money in our elections we cannot do
better than to follow the English statute, for that has
accomplished completely what we are striving for the
annihilation of the evils. The English act compels
the complete publication of every penny received and
spent, personally or otherwise, in promoting an elec--
don, and it fixes a maximum limit in each case beyond
which the total expenditure must not be carried. Until
we carry our laws to the same extreme, we must be
prepared to see them only partly successful in practice,
merely restricting the evils somewhat, but not eradicat-
ing them.
Road-Building Exhibit at Chicago.
ALTHOUGH the advocates of good roads were un-
able to induce Congress at its last session to pass a bill
appropriating one million dollars for a special building
to be used for a comprehensive road-building exhibit
at the Worlds Fair in Chicago, they are not discour-
aged. They propose to renew their request at the pres-
ent session, and though they may not succeed in getting
it granted, they declare their purpose of making an ex-
hibit. If they cannot get a building, they will use tents,
or some other inexpensive method of inclosure, and
they will have a mile or more of roadways in various
asages of construction.
This is a patriotic determination. That there is a
great and steadily increasing interest in the subject of
good roads was shown in a very striking manner by
the memorial u-hich the advocates of the proposed ex-
hibit sent to Congress. It was a pamphlet of more than
one hundred pages, and contained letters of approval
from the President and several members of his cabi-
net, a large number of senators and congressmen, the
governors of nearly all the States, the mayors of many
See also Our Common Roads~ in THE CENTURY fur April,
i892.
leading cities, prominent army officers, and the presi-
dents of our leading colleges. All these persons ex-
pressed hearty sympathy with the movement, and
declared their conviction that no more worthy or pa-
triotic cause could be represented at the Fair. These
letters, accompanied as they were by a great mass of
favorable newspaper comment, gave most encouraging
evidence that public sentiment in all parts of the coun-
try has been aroused to the pressing need of road re-
form, and to the importance of using the best means
for bringing it about.
What the advocates of good roads propose is a com-
prehensive exhibit of all that is known of scientific
road-building, which will serve as a school of instruc-
tion to the thousands of Americans who will visit the
Fair. They will give sample sections of the best road-
construction in this country and in Europe. They
will have skilled workmen actually engaged in con-
srru~ting sections of the various kinds of roads, the
most expensive and the cheapest as well, and will have
competent engineers and chemists in attendance to ex-
plain the process of building the roads, constructing ar-
tificial stone, and preparing cements. All machinery
used in the work, and the various kinds of material, will
be seen in daily practical operation. In short, the visitor
who wishes to see not only what a scientific road is,
but the exact way in which it is built, will have full
opportunity of doing so.
It is scarcely necessary to comment upon the great
public value of such an exhibit. Thousands of men in
all parts of the land will have their interest in the sub-
ject not only aroused to fresh activity, but directed in
intelligent channels toward the accomplishment of the
most desirable results. Road-building will receive a
truly national impulse, with the ultimate effect of in-
calculably increasing the happinessbas well as the pros-
perity of the whole people. It is not improbable that
the people of the United States, now slowly awaking
to the fact that they are more than one hundred years
behind other civilized countries in the science of road-
building, may date the general beginning of their de-
termination to catch up with the rest of the-world in
this matter from the Worlds Fair of I893.
Thist we are far behind other nations in the construc-
tion of our highways no one denies, but few persons
realize how long the older countries of the world have
been engaged in the work of scientific road-building.
In that delightful book, Youngs Travels in France,
we come almost constantly upon such tributes to the
roads of that country as the following, under date of
June 9, I787:
The immense view from the descent to Douzenac is
equally magnificent. To all this is added the finest road
in the world, everywhere formed in the most perfect man-
ner, and kept in the highest preservation, like the well-
ordered alley of a garden, without dust, sand, stones, or
inequality, firm and level, of pounded granite, and traced
with such a perpetual command of prospect, that had the
engineer no other object in view, he could not have exe-
cuted it with a more finished taste.
That was written over a hundred years ago about a
road which had been built long before, yet it will stand
to-day as a perfect (lescription of the best road which
modern science is able to construct. What a civilizing
influence such a road must be in any country through
which it runs!
150OPEN LETTERS.
Sunday at the Worlds Fair.
THE Day of Rest is too important an institution in
its relation to the physical, moral, industrial, and spirit-
ual interests of the nation to he subjected to any sup-
posed financial necessity. The Worlds Fair should not
be kept open seven days of the week for any sordid
reason. If Congress is to change its decision, it must
be for sanitary, educational, and moral reasons, and not
for merely financial ones. The Sabbath must not be
bartered away; it most he put to its hest usesthe
uses of man. If the gates are to be opened, it must he in
the spirit of the statesmanlike, patriotic, and inspiring
program outlined by Bishop Potter in his paper printed
in this number of THE CENTURY and of the Rev. Dr.
Gladdens admirable statement in our Open Letters.
If the gates are to he opened during any part of
Sunday, it should he for a silent exhibition: no hum
of machinery; no confounding of the Day of Rest with
the days of lahor. Sunday should be the day devoted
especially to the higher phases of the great Exposition
the natural beauties of the situation, the architecture,
the landscape-gardening, the art, the music to the
opportunities of listening to learned, patriotic, or
spiritual discourse. Religion should not stand at the
gates to drive away with thongs and reproaches the
crowding myriads of humanity; hut with outstretched
hands it should welcome men, women, and children to
all within those gates that is noblest and most saving.
The Worlds Fair at Chicago can and should he made
an object-lesson of the humane and genuinely Christian
use of the first day of the week.
OPEN LETTERS.
Sunday in Chicago.
THE enforcement by law of Sabbath observance from
a religious point of view or for a religious purpose
has always seemed to me equally opposed to the spirit
of our Government and to the spirit of our religion. All
that we can seek through legal enforcement is a weekly
rest-day; and we seek this in the interest of the na-
tional health and the national vigor. We may believe
that it is better for the whole people, and especially for
the working-people, that one day in seven should be
a day of rest. The principle on which the law of the
Sabbath is founded is the old Roman preceptSalEs
ppuli s/q59v111e iPx esto. That the national vigor is
seriously impaired by the failure to keep the weekly
rest-day is, I believe, pretty clearly recognized just now
in Germany, where strenuous efforts are being made to
recover a lost Sabbath, in the interest of the working-
classes. If the opening of the Columbian Exposition
on Sunday should seem to justify and encourage Sun-
day labor, it would be a national injury. The working-
classes, in whose interest it is to be opened on Sun-
day, are the very persons who are chiefly interested in
strengthening the barriers which divide the weekly
rest-day from the other days of the week. It is they,
above all others, as experience shows, who suffer from
the overthrou- of the Sunday rest.
The proposition to make the Exposition itself a great
illustration of the fact that Sunday in America is in this
respect different from other days, by stopping the pro-
cesses of labor, and enforcing in all this enormous hive
of industry the law of Sabbath rest, seems to me rea-
sonable. If the visitors from all lands, admitted on
Snurlay afternoon, could see all the machinery standing
still, and be conscious of the Sabbath silence that has
fallen upon all this toil and traffic, they would get some
impression of the meaning of Sunday, in our national
life. They would see that while continental Europe
permits its laborers to be driven to their toil seven
days in the week, the American rest-day stands be-
tween the greed of wealth and the toiling millions for
their shelter and defense. The lessons to he learned at
the Exposition on Sunday afternoons would be different
from those taught on week-days, but they might be
no less valuable. There would be much to see and enjoy
in those quiet hours; to the vast majority of the visi-
tors the silent halls would afford an educational oppor-
tunity more valuable, in some respects, than that of the
noisy week.
All this maybe conceded without yielding much to the
implied threat of Chicago that if the Exposition is not
opened on Sunday, Chicago will debauch the crowd of
visitors. It might occur to Chicago that, whether tlae
Exposition is open or shut, it is her first husiness to
see to it that order be preserved, and that a strong
hand be laid upon the dealers in debauchery. It is
manifest that Sunday in Chicago, during the continu-
ance of the Fair, might be a perilous day for the multi-
tude, whether the doors of the Exposition were open
or not. It is evident that it will be, unless Chicago
takes good precaution against the peril. This measure
of precaution the nation has a right to demand of
Chicago. We have bestowed upon Chicago a great
privilege and a great bounty; we have a right to ask
tlaat she behave herself decently. We shall be sending
our youth by the htmdred thousand to sojourn for a
season within her borders. We want her to make her
streets safe and orderly while they are there. We call
upon her to restrain and suppress those classes of her
population who thrive by the corruption of their fellow-
men. Chicago is burning to show us her tall buildings
and her big parks. It is a thousand times more im-
portant that she show us a city well governed. The
nation has done Chicago an immense service by giving
her this exhibition. The one return that the nation
has a right to require of Chicago is that slae order her
municipal life in such a way that the nation shall take
no detriment, in its reputation or in its morals, by the
sojourn of this great multitude within her gates.
Washington Gladden.
CoLunnus, 0., September 7, 1892.
Female Humorists and American Humor.
Wsiy, in literature, are there no female humorists?
Is it not because our sister has been, so far, com
5

EditorialEditorialColumbian Exposition: Sunday at the World's Fair151

OPEN LETTERS.
Sunday at the Worlds Fair.
THE Day of Rest is too important an institution in
its relation to the physical, moral, industrial, and spirit-
ual interests of the nation to he subjected to any sup-
posed financial necessity. The Worlds Fair should not
be kept open seven days of the week for any sordid
reason. If Congress is to change its decision, it must
be for sanitary, educational, and moral reasons, and not
for merely financial ones. The Sabbath must not be
bartered away; it most he put to its hest usesthe
uses of man. If the gates are to be opened, it must he in
the spirit of the statesmanlike, patriotic, and inspiring
program outlined by Bishop Potter in his paper printed
in this number of THE CENTURY and of the Rev. Dr.
Gladdens admirable statement in our Open Letters.
If the gates are to he opened during any part of
Sunday, it should he for a silent exhibition: no hum
of machinery; no confounding of the Day of Rest with
the days of lahor. Sunday should be the day devoted
especially to the higher phases of the great Exposition
the natural beauties of the situation, the architecture,
the landscape-gardening, the art, the music to the
opportunities of listening to learned, patriotic, or
spiritual discourse. Religion should not stand at the
gates to drive away with thongs and reproaches the
crowding myriads of humanity; hut with outstretched
hands it should welcome men, women, and children to
all within those gates that is noblest and most saving.
The Worlds Fair at Chicago can and should he made
an object-lesson of the humane and genuinely Christian
use of the first day of the week.
OPEN LETTERS.
Sunday in Chicago.
THE enforcement by law of Sabbath observance from
a religious point of view or for a religious purpose
has always seemed to me equally opposed to the spirit
of our Government and to the spirit of our religion. All
that we can seek through legal enforcement is a weekly
rest-day; and we seek this in the interest of the na-
tional health and the national vigor. We may believe
that it is better for the whole people, and especially for
the working-people, that one day in seven should be
a day of rest. The principle on which the law of the
Sabbath is founded is the old Roman preceptSalEs
ppuli s/q59v111e iPx esto. That the national vigor is
seriously impaired by the failure to keep the weekly
rest-day is, I believe, pretty clearly recognized just now
in Germany, where strenuous efforts are being made to
recover a lost Sabbath, in the interest of the working-
classes. If the opening of the Columbian Exposition
on Sunday should seem to justify and encourage Sun-
day labor, it would be a national injury. The working-
classes, in whose interest it is to be opened on Sun-
day, are the very persons who are chiefly interested in
strengthening the barriers which divide the weekly
rest-day from the other days of the week. It is they,
above all others, as experience shows, who suffer from
the overthrou- of the Sunday rest.
The proposition to make the Exposition itself a great
illustration of the fact that Sunday in America is in this
respect different from other days, by stopping the pro-
cesses of labor, and enforcing in all this enormous hive
of industry the law of Sabbath rest, seems to me rea-
sonable. If the visitors from all lands, admitted on
Snurlay afternoon, could see all the machinery standing
still, and be conscious of the Sabbath silence that has
fallen upon all this toil and traffic, they would get some
impression of the meaning of Sunday, in our national
life. They would see that while continental Europe
permits its laborers to be driven to their toil seven
days in the week, the American rest-day stands be-
tween the greed of wealth and the toiling millions for
their shelter and defense. The lessons to he learned at
the Exposition on Sunday afternoons would be different
from those taught on week-days, but they might be
no less valuable. There would be much to see and enjoy
in those quiet hours; to the vast majority of the visi-
tors the silent halls would afford an educational oppor-
tunity more valuable, in some respects, than that of the
noisy week.
All this maybe conceded without yielding much to the
implied threat of Chicago that if the Exposition is not
opened on Sunday, Chicago will debauch the crowd of
visitors. It might occur to Chicago that, whether tlae
Exposition is open or shut, it is her first husiness to
see to it that order be preserved, and that a strong
hand be laid upon the dealers in debauchery. It is
manifest that Sunday in Chicago, during the continu-
ance of the Fair, might be a perilous day for the multi-
tude, whether the doors of the Exposition were open
or not. It is evident that it will be, unless Chicago
takes good precaution against the peril. This measure
of precaution the nation has a right to demand of
Chicago. We have bestowed upon Chicago a great
privilege and a great bounty; we have a right to ask
tlaat she behave herself decently. We shall be sending
our youth by the htmdred thousand to sojourn for a
season within her borders. We want her to make her
streets safe and orderly while they are there. We call
upon her to restrain and suppress those classes of her
population who thrive by the corruption of their fellow-
men. Chicago is burning to show us her tall buildings
and her big parks. It is a thousand times more im-
portant that she show us a city well governed. The
nation has done Chicago an immense service by giving
her this exhibition. The one return that the nation
has a right to require of Chicago is that slae order her
municipal life in such a way that the nation shall take
no detriment, in its reputation or in its morals, by the
sojourn of this great multitude within her gates.
Washington Gladden.
CoLunnus, 0., September 7, 1892.
Female Humorists and American Humor.
Wsiy, in literature, are there no female humorists?
Is it not because our sister has been, so far, com
5

OPEN LETTERS.
Sunday at the Worlds Fair.
THE Day of Rest is too important an institution in
its relation to the physical, moral, industrial, and spirit-
ual interests of the nation to he subjected to any sup-
posed financial necessity. The Worlds Fair should not
be kept open seven days of the week for any sordid
reason. If Congress is to change its decision, it must
be for sanitary, educational, and moral reasons, and not
for merely financial ones. The Sabbath must not be
bartered away; it most he put to its hest usesthe
uses of man. If the gates are to be opened, it must he in
the spirit of the statesmanlike, patriotic, and inspiring
program outlined by Bishop Potter in his paper printed
in this number of THE CENTURY and of the Rev. Dr.
Gladdens admirable statement in our Open Letters.
If the gates are to he opened during any part of
Sunday, it should he for a silent exhibition: no hum
of machinery; no confounding of the Day of Rest with
the days of lahor. Sunday should be the day devoted
especially to the higher phases of the great Exposition
the natural beauties of the situation, the architecture,
the landscape-gardening, the art, the music to the
opportunities of listening to learned, patriotic, or
spiritual discourse. Religion should not stand at the
gates to drive away with thongs and reproaches the
crowding myriads of humanity; hut with outstretched
hands it should welcome men, women, and children to
all within those gates that is noblest and most saving.
The Worlds Fair at Chicago can and should he made
an object-lesson of the humane and genuinely Christian
use of the first day of the week.
OPEN LETTERS.
Sunday in Chicago.
THE enforcement by law of Sabbath observance from
a religious point of view or for a religious purpose
has always seemed to me equally opposed to the spirit
of our Government and to the spirit of our religion. All
that we can seek through legal enforcement is a weekly
rest-day; and we seek this in the interest of the na-
tional health and the national vigor. We may believe
that it is better for the whole people, and especially for
the working-people, that one day in seven should be
a day of rest. The principle on which the law of the
Sabbath is founded is the old Roman preceptSalEs
ppuli s/q59v111e iPx esto. That the national vigor is
seriously impaired by the failure to keep the weekly
rest-day is, I believe, pretty clearly recognized just now
in Germany, where strenuous efforts are being made to
recover a lost Sabbath, in the interest of the working-
classes. If the opening of the Columbian Exposition
on Sunday should seem to justify and encourage Sun-
day labor, it would be a national injury. The working-
classes, in whose interest it is to be opened on Sun-
day, are the very persons who are chiefly interested in
strengthening the barriers which divide the weekly
rest-day from the other days of the week. It is they,
above all others, as experience shows, who suffer from
the overthrou- of the Sunday rest.
The proposition to make the Exposition itself a great
illustration of the fact that Sunday in America is in this
respect different from other days, by stopping the pro-
cesses of labor, and enforcing in all this enormous hive
of industry the law of Sabbath rest, seems to me rea-
sonable. If the visitors from all lands, admitted on
Snurlay afternoon, could see all the machinery standing
still, and be conscious of the Sabbath silence that has
fallen upon all this toil and traffic, they would get some
impression of the meaning of Sunday, in our national
life. They would see that while continental Europe
permits its laborers to be driven to their toil seven
days in the week, the American rest-day stands be-
tween the greed of wealth and the toiling millions for
their shelter and defense. The lessons to he learned at
the Exposition on Sunday afternoons would be different
from those taught on week-days, but they might be
no less valuable. There would be much to see and enjoy
in those quiet hours; to the vast majority of the visi-
tors the silent halls would afford an educational oppor-
tunity more valuable, in some respects, than that of the
noisy week.
All this maybe conceded without yielding much to the
implied threat of Chicago that if the Exposition is not
opened on Sunday, Chicago will debauch the crowd of
visitors. It might occur to Chicago that, whether tlae
Exposition is open or shut, it is her first husiness to
see to it that order be preserved, and that a strong
hand be laid upon the dealers in debauchery. It is
manifest that Sunday in Chicago, during the continu-
ance of the Fair, might be a perilous day for the multi-
tude, whether the doors of the Exposition were open
or not. It is evident that it will be, unless Chicago
takes good precaution against the peril. This measure
of precaution the nation has a right to demand of
Chicago. We have bestowed upon Chicago a great
privilege and a great bounty; we have a right to ask
tlaat she behave herself decently. We shall be sending
our youth by the htmdred thousand to sojourn for a
season within her borders. We want her to make her
streets safe and orderly while they are there. We call
upon her to restrain and suppress those classes of her
population who thrive by the corruption of their fellow-
men. Chicago is burning to show us her tall buildings
and her big parks. It is a thousand times more im-
portant that she show us a city well governed. The
nation has done Chicago an immense service by giving
her this exhibition. The one return that the nation
has a right to require of Chicago is that slae order her
municipal life in such a way that the nation shall take
no detriment, in its reputation or in its morals, by the
sojourn of this great multitude within her gates.
Washington Gladden.
CoLunnus, 0., September 7, 1892.
Female Humorists and American Humor.
Wsiy, in literature, are there no female humorists?
Is it not because our sister has been, so far, com
5

OPEN LETTERS.
Sunday at the Worlds Fair.
THE Day of Rest is too important an institution in
its relation to the physical, moral, industrial, and spirit-
ual interests of the nation to he subjected to any sup-
posed financial necessity. The Worlds Fair should not
be kept open seven days of the week for any sordid
reason. If Congress is to change its decision, it must
be for sanitary, educational, and moral reasons, and not
for merely financial ones. The Sabbath must not be
bartered away; it most he put to its hest usesthe
uses of man. If the gates are to be opened, it must he in
the spirit of the statesmanlike, patriotic, and inspiring
program outlined by Bishop Potter in his paper printed
in this number of THE CENTURY and of the Rev. Dr.
Gladdens admirable statement in our Open Letters.
If the gates are to he opened during any part of
Sunday, it should he for a silent exhibition: no hum
of machinery; no confounding of the Day of Rest with
the days of lahor. Sunday should be the day devoted
especially to the higher phases of the great Exposition
the natural beauties of the situation, the architecture,
the landscape-gardening, the art, the music to the
opportunities of listening to learned, patriotic, or
spiritual discourse. Religion should not stand at the
gates to drive away with thongs and reproaches the
crowding myriads of humanity; hut with outstretched
hands it should welcome men, women, and children to
all within those gates that is noblest and most saving.
The Worlds Fair at Chicago can and should he made
an object-lesson of the humane and genuinely Christian
use of the first day of the week.
OPEN LETTERS.
Sunday in Chicago.
THE enforcement by law of Sabbath observance from
a religious point of view or for a religious purpose
has always seemed to me equally opposed to the spirit
of our Government and to the spirit of our religion. All
that we can seek through legal enforcement is a weekly
rest-day; and we seek this in the interest of the na-
tional health and the national vigor. We may believe
that it is better for the whole people, and especially for
the working-people, that one day in seven should be
a day of rest. The principle on which the law of the
Sabbath is founded is the old Roman preceptSalEs
ppuli s/q59v111e iPx esto. That the national vigor is
seriously impaired by the failure to keep the weekly
rest-day is, I believe, pretty clearly recognized just now
in Germany, where strenuous efforts are being made to
recover a lost Sabbath, in the interest of the working-
classes. If the opening of the Columbian Exposition
on Sunday should seem to justify and encourage Sun-
day labor, it would be a national injury. The working-
classes, in whose interest it is to be opened on Sun-
day, are the very persons who are chiefly interested in
strengthening the barriers which divide the weekly
rest-day from the other days of the week. It is they,
above all others, as experience shows, who suffer from
the overthrou- of the Sunday rest.
The proposition to make the Exposition itself a great
illustration of the fact that Sunday in America is in this
respect different from other days, by stopping the pro-
cesses of labor, and enforcing in all this enormous hive
of industry the law of Sabbath rest, seems to me rea-
sonable. If the visitors from all lands, admitted on
Snurlay afternoon, could see all the machinery standing
still, and be conscious of the Sabbath silence that has
fallen upon all this toil and traffic, they would get some
impression of the meaning of Sunday, in our national
life. They would see that while continental Europe
permits its laborers to be driven to their toil seven
days in the week, the American rest-day stands be-
tween the greed of wealth and the toiling millions for
their shelter and defense. The lessons to he learned at
the Exposition on Sunday afternoons would be different
from those taught on week-days, but they might be
no less valuable. There would be much to see and enjoy
in those quiet hours; to the vast majority of the visi-
tors the silent halls would afford an educational oppor-
tunity more valuable, in some respects, than that of the
noisy week.
All this maybe conceded without yielding much to the
implied threat of Chicago that if the Exposition is not
opened on Sunday, Chicago will debauch the crowd of
visitors. It might occur to Chicago that, whether tlae
Exposition is open or shut, it is her first husiness to
see to it that order be preserved, and that a strong
hand be laid upon the dealers in debauchery. It is
manifest that Sunday in Chicago, during the continu-
ance of the Fair, might be a perilous day for the multi-
tude, whether the doors of the Exposition were open
or not. It is evident that it will be, unless Chicago
takes good precaution against the peril. This measure
of precaution the nation has a right to demand of
Chicago. We have bestowed upon Chicago a great
privilege and a great bounty; we have a right to ask
tlaat she behave herself decently. We shall be sending
our youth by the htmdred thousand to sojourn for a
season within her borders. We want her to make her
streets safe and orderly while they are there. We call
upon her to restrain and suppress those classes of her
population who thrive by the corruption of their fellow-
men. Chicago is burning to show us her tall buildings
and her big parks. It is a thousand times more im-
portant that she show us a city well governed. The
nation has done Chicago an immense service by giving
her this exhibition. The one return that the nation
has a right to require of Chicago is that slae order her
municipal life in such a way that the nation shall take
no detriment, in its reputation or in its morals, by the
sojourn of this great multitude within her gates.
Washington Gladden.
CoLunnus, 0., September 7, 1892.
Female Humorists and American Humor.
Wsiy, in literature, are there no female humorists?
Is it not because our sister has been, so far, com
5OPEN LETTERS.
pelled by nature to make idols, and because she is
too much in earnest over her devotion to them to lapse
into what would seem to her to be frivolity? Whether
erected rightly or wrongly, these idols become a part
of herself, and must be propped up at any cost. If, in
pite of all her effort, some other power throws them
down, or if they throw themselves down, she may be-
come bitter, or sad, or savage, or religious but never
humorous.
A glance at the origin and effects of humor in men
doeS much to answer the above question. Mans humor
is the outcome of his capacity to see truth, or at least
to discern untruth, and thus to make comparisons. Ac-
customed since childhood to find the sawdust dropping
out of everything, and losing belief in all kinds of
wonderment-myths, he ceases to allow his early and
more effeminate passion for something to adore and
idealize to override his growing desire for truth. The
deities which have become mythological, the misplaced
affections and trusts, the mistaken respect for the great
families of Bulstrode and Pecksniff, in fact, every thing
in which he has been disillusionized, has gone to form
his education to form an aggregate past of general
smash at which Jove may smile.
The man smiles, tooif he can. Every day, every
hour, he sees the more effeminate of both sexes plac-
ing on a heart-altar for adoration images, ideas, heroes,
beliefs all of which have been for him, in turn, fe-
tishes which once possessed every magic power with
which fancy could endow them. He therefore smiles
when he sees others in the purgatory of the worlds
schooling, which teaches unpalatable truth and the
healthy self-reliance which comes with full knowledge
of sawdust and cheese-cloth.
But his smile is not unkind; for he remembers the
hurt which iconoclasm brought. The necessity he finds
for making the best of things, and the habit he has
fallen into of giving a sort of mental snap of the fingers
at the unhappiness of each disillusionment, often pro-
duce a certain philosophic mirth which provides one
avenue of escape from the inevitable difficulty that
education and love for truth force upon him cer-
tainly a better one than js afforded hy despondency.
There is nothing so sane as good humor.
No matter how various may be the channels into
which his sense of humor may afterward lead him, it
first proceeds from his being convinced of the worth-
lessness of a great deal that passes as valuable, and
from that passion for truth which exhibits things as
they are, and not as they seem, and which compensates
him, most of the time, for the loss of the visionarys
happiness.
\Vomens idols are so much a part of their lives that
when these are broken they cannot 5O~I) their fingers.
They suffer, and their suffering seems to them sacred.
To seek mans avenue of escape from wretchedness in
the laisser-al/er of mirth would seem, to them, the worst
kind of sacrilege. If possible, in time, they seek other
idols perhaps embrace the religion which happens to
offer the first consolation, taking care afterward to shut
out any truth that might again disillusionize them. XVith
them it is always a mere change of idols, never a total
giving up of them. They will not face truth which
means unhappiness. While man learns that happiness
must be confined to quiet and normal limits, woman
still seeks ecstasy. She does not love truth in a mas
culine way. She loves satisfaction. The woman who
gives up a comforting belief merely because it has no
raison dVlre is rarer than the black swan.
Fanatics and very single-minded people, such as
the ancient Hebrews or present Arabs, are not humor-
ous. So with women. The idols of fanaticism must
be smashed before the whimsicality of human life finds
speech. When men learn by education that they know
nothing, there is fellowship upon the common ground
of mutual loss. When satisfied that the questions of
the universe will never be answered, they politely ig-
nore the tragedy of roans position by saying, Is it not
absurd? As long as women cannot break their idols,
or suffer injury when these get broken, just so long
will they never produce humor.
Yet they appreciate many kinds of humor when
these are put before them; when, for instance, it is
made clear that Pecksniff was not what he pretended
to be. But (George Eliot excepted) they have not
created a Pecksniff. Not being convinced of the worth-
lessness and absurdity of much that is considered valua-
ble, their minds are not in the habit of placing the real
and the unreal side by side; and if they do arrive at a
lcnowledge of human weakness, they write of it only to
condemn it, not being so accustomed to it that they can
express or even discern the absurdities with which it
often appears to men. The sermon or novel which
causes change is generally, now, the one which makes
weakness seem absurd. Vanity can be touched when
religion is nowhere; and with well-informed Ameri-
cans human error, and in fact almost everything else,
is passed through a sort of compassionate whimsical-
ity which appreciates what is valuable, and casts out
or makes sport of the absurd. But, dazzled by her
i(leals,blind to all else when gazing on her idols, woman
does not arrive at the comprehensive and whimsical
view of the humorist, and consequently loses in her
writing the great moral uses of the sense of absurdity,
which has done more to kill out error than all the argu-
ment of centuries, and has made Americans a free peo-
ple more than any Declaration of Independence that
ever was signed.
Again, women generally exist in one of two condi-
tions the imagining of a happiness to come, or the
seeking for consolation because it is lost, or never ar-
rives. Now this makes them, in a limited way, much
more serious than the men who have given up hoping
for ecstasy, and have learned to smile, or to try to smile,
at all life as it comes. This serious concentration; this
continuous neces~ty for making herself, for either joy
or consolation, a part of an adored idol; this picturesque
passion for reverential wonderment; this utter disre-
gard for a raison d~1re in anything she desires all
these phases are poles apart from the mind that has
been hammered by the brutality of truth into seeing the
world as it is, and can pause to portray the humorous
side of its events.
Let me not be understood to suggest that motley s
the only wear, or that heart-empty humorists have the
best of it in life, though it must be admitted that the
pleasantest men met with are often those who are so
deeply conscious of the terrible realities of life that their
humor is simply a well-bred effort to make the pathetic
endurable, or to conceal their own distress. On many
faces stamped with lines of grief may be seen playing a
quaint humor, seeming like an essence which has come
152OPEN LETTERS.
through lifes furnaces purified; a something, call it
what you will a pleasing play of fancy backed by
compassion and good will, making trouble lighter and
gaiety hrighter for all; a glimmer of satisfaction, per-
haps, in not being responsible for the making of this
world; an attempt to make the best of things where
perhaps the only answers to the cries of the desolate
and anguished are in the hearts of human beings.
Then it is asked, Why, if witty women exist, does
not their humor appear in hooks? The witty ones dis-
cern laughable incongruities in channels outside those
in which their devotions run. They are the least rev-
erential of women, and generally so cold of nature
that their gods are few. Some womanly instincts which
blind others are so absent from them that they can see
some absurdities of life without attaining the general
view, so that they do not discern the comic side of
things so extensively as some men; and in their writ-
ings the thoughts which sway them thoughts which
are part of or analogous to the worship of such gods as
they possess always absorb them first.
Satiric and ironic women are partly accounted for in
the same way. They do not become humorists because
their satire or irony is the only form of humor not
always healthywhich they possess. Women whose
natures are so strong in them that they feel themselves
different from those who chiefly rule society often feel
like hurling something at any negative saint who as-
sumes to be more valuable. Especially satiric are they
after they have transgressed a social law; and often
with such a plentiful lack of ~vit in their bitterness
that literature suffers little by not knowing of it.
The study of George Eliot and her works goes far to
suggest that for some time female humorists will be
scarce. She, more than any other authoress, attained
the general view. But always present with her was her
w-oman s hunger for something to adore; and she never
recovered from the heart-starvation which a perfect
education and love for truth forced upon her. With her
insight into human nature, even her satire was full of
a fathomless compassion that yearned over the very
~veaknesses she amused us with; and, bravely as she
faced the eternal impossibilities, her sexs absolute need
for a certainty, and the divinity of her ideals, made it
impossible forher to be content with the humorists con-
viction that this world, apart from its tragedy, is highly
absurd.
Humor mingles strangely with the compassion and
sense of decency which help to form the composite
religion in which an American seeks to be valuable
rather than holy; and if women are not up to his hu-
moristic level, it is because they cannot as yet tread the
same arduous path. For his part, he thinks they suffer
too much already; and he is content that they retain
their pow-er for worship especially of him.
How odd that womans idols answer prayer! Cer-
tainly, at least, she produces only while her idols exist.
When life ceases to be in some way holy, or at any rate
ideal, for her, then her creative faculty terminates. She
ends where mans talent as a humorist begins.
Speaking vaguely, then, and hoping that the fore-
going will explain my meaning, men may become hu-
morists as they find that they know nothing. Women
are not humorists because they never cease to think
they know something.
Stinson Jarvis.
XTOL XLV.2i.
A Codperative Failure and its Lessons.
ABOUT a dozen years ago a coi5perative scheme of
considerable magnitude was begun and carried forward
toward completion in a town in the Far XVest. It
did not owe its conception to a strike, which with its
accompanying heedlessness might have urged the in-
vestors to inconsiderate action. The business venture
was of soberj udgment, planned in quiet times. Casually
investigated, the undertaking seemed, even to shrewd
business men, to have many elements assuring its suc-
cess. The business was not a new one to the investors.
To nearly all of them it had been in one way or another
their daily toil since early youth. Among the number
financially interested were some who, by their intelli-
gence and faithfulness, had risen to positions of foremen
and superintendents in just such work as the enterprise
was to give for them. No wonder, therefore, that the
codperators had resolute faith in their undertaking.
It was often their boast that this was the poor mans
scheme, one that in every way they were specially fitted
for. When once they had it in running order they would
show the bloated bondholders at present employing
them how to make money.
Capital was speedily raised among these workmen,
foremen, superintendents, and such of their friends as
they were willing to have share with them. In an en-
terprise so safely guarded, the investment was, in their
estimation, surer than a bank-account. To mortgage
their homesteads would not endanger them, when such
certain profits were to accrue to the money so borrowed.
So bank-accounts and borrowed moneya lien upon
theirhomesteads were accumulated to make a capital
of about one hundred thousand dollars. In felicitating
themselves upon the bright hopes of immense profits,
the first plan of a blast-furnace only was amplified to
include puddling-furnaces, a merchant-bar mill, and
even a foundry adjuncts which could only add to the
lucrativeness of the scheme.
All went well so long as the capital lasted. Later the
day came to this enterprise, as it has to many another,
when an empty treasury and an unfinished plant rep-
resented the status of affairs. Hitherto it had been easy
sailing. They had had money and visible property in-
dividually upon which to borrow. They had the ability
to plan the works and to direct the construction of the
various parts. They were familiar with the machinery
to be used, and so had found no difficulty in selecting
to advantage. This practical knowledge had been in
their estimation all that was necessary to make an ab-
solute success of their scheme. Financial skill with
them was of a lower order of merit, while business
ability and practical knowledge of their trade were
synonymous terms. But money must be provided, and
they did not now have it among themselves. How and
where it must be raised was the question. They were
henceforth for a time compelled to attempt a solution of
another and to them a new side of the business prob-
lem, the financial part, which they had held in light
esteem. So hopeful were they of their scheme that they
sought no outside advice, nor did they court assistance
where experience could give it. They felt themselves
equal to the emergency. Money was borrowed on
their furnace property, the loan being secured in a
region where the current rate of interest was twenty-
four per cent. per annum.
53

N.N.A Cooperative Failure and its Lessons153-154

OPEN LETTERS.
through lifes furnaces purified; a something, call it
what you will a pleasing play of fancy backed by
compassion and good will, making trouble lighter and
gaiety hrighter for all; a glimmer of satisfaction, per-
haps, in not being responsible for the making of this
world; an attempt to make the best of things where
perhaps the only answers to the cries of the desolate
and anguished are in the hearts of human beings.
Then it is asked, Why, if witty women exist, does
not their humor appear in hooks? The witty ones dis-
cern laughable incongruities in channels outside those
in which their devotions run. They are the least rev-
erential of women, and generally so cold of nature
that their gods are few. Some womanly instincts which
blind others are so absent from them that they can see
some absurdities of life without attaining the general
view, so that they do not discern the comic side of
things so extensively as some men; and in their writ-
ings the thoughts which sway them thoughts which
are part of or analogous to the worship of such gods as
they possess always absorb them first.
Satiric and ironic women are partly accounted for in
the same way. They do not become humorists because
their satire or irony is the only form of humor not
always healthywhich they possess. Women whose
natures are so strong in them that they feel themselves
different from those who chiefly rule society often feel
like hurling something at any negative saint who as-
sumes to be more valuable. Especially satiric are they
after they have transgressed a social law; and often
with such a plentiful lack of ~vit in their bitterness
that literature suffers little by not knowing of it.
The study of George Eliot and her works goes far to
suggest that for some time female humorists will be
scarce. She, more than any other authoress, attained
the general view. But always present with her was her
w-oman s hunger for something to adore; and she never
recovered from the heart-starvation which a perfect
education and love for truth forced upon her. With her
insight into human nature, even her satire was full of
a fathomless compassion that yearned over the very
~veaknesses she amused us with; and, bravely as she
faced the eternal impossibilities, her sexs absolute need
for a certainty, and the divinity of her ideals, made it
impossible forher to be content with the humorists con-
viction that this world, apart from its tragedy, is highly
absurd.
Humor mingles strangely with the compassion and
sense of decency which help to form the composite
religion in which an American seeks to be valuable
rather than holy; and if women are not up to his hu-
moristic level, it is because they cannot as yet tread the
same arduous path. For his part, he thinks they suffer
too much already; and he is content that they retain
their pow-er for worship especially of him.
How odd that womans idols answer prayer! Cer-
tainly, at least, she produces only while her idols exist.
When life ceases to be in some way holy, or at any rate
ideal, for her, then her creative faculty terminates. She
ends where mans talent as a humorist begins.
Speaking vaguely, then, and hoping that the fore-
going will explain my meaning, men may become hu-
morists as they find that they know nothing. Women
are not humorists because they never cease to think
they know something.
Stinson Jarvis.
XTOL XLV.2i.
A Codperative Failure and its Lessons.
ABOUT a dozen years ago a coi5perative scheme of
considerable magnitude was begun and carried forward
toward completion in a town in the Far XVest. It
did not owe its conception to a strike, which with its
accompanying heedlessness might have urged the in-
vestors to inconsiderate action. The business venture
was of soberj udgment, planned in quiet times. Casually
investigated, the undertaking seemed, even to shrewd
business men, to have many elements assuring its suc-
cess. The business was not a new one to the investors.
To nearly all of them it had been in one way or another
their daily toil since early youth. Among the number
financially interested were some who, by their intelli-
gence and faithfulness, had risen to positions of foremen
and superintendents in just such work as the enterprise
was to give for them. No wonder, therefore, that the
codperators had resolute faith in their undertaking.
It was often their boast that this was the poor mans
scheme, one that in every way they were specially fitted
for. When once they had it in running order they would
show the bloated bondholders at present employing
them how to make money.
Capital was speedily raised among these workmen,
foremen, superintendents, and such of their friends as
they were willing to have share with them. In an en-
terprise so safely guarded, the investment was, in their
estimation, surer than a bank-account. To mortgage
their homesteads would not endanger them, when such
certain profits were to accrue to the money so borrowed.
So bank-accounts and borrowed moneya lien upon
theirhomesteads were accumulated to make a capital
of about one hundred thousand dollars. In felicitating
themselves upon the bright hopes of immense profits,
the first plan of a blast-furnace only was amplified to
include puddling-furnaces, a merchant-bar mill, and
even a foundry adjuncts which could only add to the
lucrativeness of the scheme.
All went well so long as the capital lasted. Later the
day came to this enterprise, as it has to many another,
when an empty treasury and an unfinished plant rep-
resented the status of affairs. Hitherto it had been easy
sailing. They had had money and visible property in-
dividually upon which to borrow. They had the ability
to plan the works and to direct the construction of the
various parts. They were familiar with the machinery
to be used, and so had found no difficulty in selecting
to advantage. This practical knowledge had been in
their estimation all that was necessary to make an ab-
solute success of their scheme. Financial skill with
them was of a lower order of merit, while business
ability and practical knowledge of their trade were
synonymous terms. But money must be provided, and
they did not now have it among themselves. How and
where it must be raised was the question. They were
henceforth for a time compelled to attempt a solution of
another and to them a new side of the business prob-
lem, the financial part, which they had held in light
esteem. So hopeful were they of their scheme that they
sought no outside advice, nor did they court assistance
where experience could give it. They felt themselves
equal to the emergency. Money was borrowed on
their furnace property, the loan being secured in a
region where the current rate of interest was twenty-
four per cent. per annum.
53OPEN LETTERS.
Difficulties soon met them again, and at a new turn,
for the borrowed money was insufficient in amount to
complete the works. Experience was teaching them
that the duties of their husiness had many complexities.
They had just struggled with a very unfamiliar com-
hination of duties the making of estimates of the cost
of work and the paying for it. This was very unlike
their daily toil, which had been directed by men posses-
sing great financial skill and business ability. Their
estimates were far too low to complete even the blast-
furnace, which on the score, of economy was neverthe-
less pushed toward completion.
It was at this stage of affairs that they became thor-
oughly awakened to the saddest of business straits
inability to borrow, and their unfinished works mort-
gaged at a ruinous interest. Overwhelming ruin was
impending. It was evident that only financial skill
could secure the needed aid. To solicit such help now,
after their earlier boastings, must have caused them
much chagrin. A friend was sought in whose business
ability and integrity they reposed much confidence.
They proposed to him the transfer of the controlling
interest and the management of their scheme at a great
sacrifice, if he would but help them to success. He
gave them encouragement, for, as mentioned earlier, the
scheme appeared to casual inspection as possessed of
substantial merits. The financial part he investigated
without discovering any troublesome perplexities. But
when the basis of the scheme was carefully examined
by an expert sent by the capitalist to look over the
property, the fact was discovered, or, to speak accu-
rately, was verified (for the cohperators had been ad-
vised of it early in the history of their enterprise), that
there was no suitable fuel economically accessible.
What they bad deemed a bituminous coal was in real-
itv a lignite, which would in no way serve for iron-
smelting; and unless proper fuel could be obtained
in the vicinity there was no reason for the existence
of their scheme.
The adverse report was the death-knell to the bright
hopes of all interested. With some of their number
the shock made reason totter as their fair dream
vanished.
Ir would have been a happy event, and not less no-
table as an example, had the cotiperators succeeded.
Their signal failure is an instructive lesson. These un-
fortunate investors have come to know by costly ex-
perience that a cotiperative scheme is subject to all the
laws which circumscribe any business venture. No
special commercial deity presides over cot5peration.
In fact, such enterprises have inherent weaknesses
which render them even less exempt than others from
danger of wreck. Skill in labor is not the sole essential to
success in business, nor does capital allied with it make
it sure. If that were so, then but a brief interval would
elapse before the united workmen of the world would
control its capital. To achieve commercial success the
combination of financial skill and business ability is far
more essential than the combination of labor and capi-
tal. The former qualities may be likened to the abili-
ties of a victorious general, the latter qualities to the
attributes of an army. The army may be ever so cou-
rageous, ever so strong in numbers and equipment,
but without a skilful captain no real battles can be
won.
Suggestions on the Labor Question.
I SHOULD be glad to see a careful consideration of
the following points by some capable writer on the
labor question:
First. The misdirection of associated strength. The
mere possession of power and opportunities does not
give the party controlling them infallible wisdom in
their use.
Second. The policy of confining the associations to a
few xvell-defined ohj ects of beneficial character. Squan-
dering strength by meddling with questions that can
be settled by other means brings a stormy and expen-
sive life and an early death to an association.
Third. The growing tendency all over the world to
localize administration, and to keep communities free
from entanglement with the errors and mistakes of
their neighbors. The labor movement seems to reverse
this plan, and to endeavor to make every personal diffi-
culty wide-spread and national.
Fourth. The irresponsible action by secret societies
to effect objects that should be controlled by open and
regular laws, affecting all citizens alike. If the laws
are not right, let them be properly amended.
F~/t/z. The wisdom of compelling all associations of
employers or employees to take out State charters mak-
ing them responsible corporations that can sue and be
sued; that is, making them responsible for the use of
their great power for either good or evil. To make this
provision complete, the officers controlling strikes or
lockouts should be required to give substantial secur-
ity that they will conduct their duties lawfully and with
discretion. A provision of this kind would send reck-
less and impracticatile agitators to the rear, and bring
the more prudent elements of society to the control of
the various associations.
A Reader.
General McClellans Baggage-Destroying Order.
IN THE CENTURy for May, 1889, pages 157,158, there
are letters from General J. F. Rusling and George E.
Corson, referring to a foot-note (page 142 of THE CEN-
TURY MAGAZINE for November, i888) of Messrs. Hay
and Nicolays Life of Lincoln. The foot-note quotes
from testimony of Lieutenant-colonel Alexander before
the CommitteG on the Conduct of the War, to the effect
that he saw on the evening of June 28, at General Mc-
Clellans headquarters at Savages Station, an order
directing the destruction of the baggage of the officers
and men, and he thought also the camp equipage, and
that he remonstrated with the general against allow--
ing any such order to be issued, and that he heard
afterward that the order was never promulgated, hut
suppressed. General Rusling states conclusively that
the order was issued and executed (as (loes George F.
Corson), but be thinks it singular that nobody has ever
produced a copy of the baggage-destroying order,
and that General McClellan does not mention it either
in his official report or in the writings inoluded in
McClellans Own Story. General Rusling relied
apparently upon Messrs. Hay and Nicolay 5 omission
to correct Colonel Alexanders statement as to its sup-
pression as evidence that it was in fact suppressed, so
far as accessible publications could demonstrate.
This order, however, was published in full, together
N. with the other circular orders of the same date (June
54

A ReaderA ReaderSuggestions on the Labor Question154

OPEN LETTERS.
Difficulties soon met them again, and at a new turn,
for the borrowed money was insufficient in amount to
complete the works. Experience was teaching them
that the duties of their husiness had many complexities.
They had just struggled with a very unfamiliar com-
hination of duties the making of estimates of the cost
of work and the paying for it. This was very unlike
their daily toil, which had been directed by men posses-
sing great financial skill and business ability. Their
estimates were far too low to complete even the blast-
furnace, which on the score, of economy was neverthe-
less pushed toward completion.
It was at this stage of affairs that they became thor-
oughly awakened to the saddest of business straits
inability to borrow, and their unfinished works mort-
gaged at a ruinous interest. Overwhelming ruin was
impending. It was evident that only financial skill
could secure the needed aid. To solicit such help now,
after their earlier boastings, must have caused them
much chagrin. A friend was sought in whose business
ability and integrity they reposed much confidence.
They proposed to him the transfer of the controlling
interest and the management of their scheme at a great
sacrifice, if he would but help them to success. He
gave them encouragement, for, as mentioned earlier, the
scheme appeared to casual inspection as possessed of
substantial merits. The financial part he investigated
without discovering any troublesome perplexities. But
when the basis of the scheme was carefully examined
by an expert sent by the capitalist to look over the
property, the fact was discovered, or, to speak accu-
rately, was verified (for the cohperators had been ad-
vised of it early in the history of their enterprise), that
there was no suitable fuel economically accessible.
What they bad deemed a bituminous coal was in real-
itv a lignite, which would in no way serve for iron-
smelting; and unless proper fuel could be obtained
in the vicinity there was no reason for the existence
of their scheme.
The adverse report was the death-knell to the bright
hopes of all interested. With some of their number
the shock made reason totter as their fair dream
vanished.
Ir would have been a happy event, and not less no-
table as an example, had the cotiperators succeeded.
Their signal failure is an instructive lesson. These un-
fortunate investors have come to know by costly ex-
perience that a cotiperative scheme is subject to all the
laws which circumscribe any business venture. No
special commercial deity presides over cot5peration.
In fact, such enterprises have inherent weaknesses
which render them even less exempt than others from
danger of wreck. Skill in labor is not the sole essential to
success in business, nor does capital allied with it make
it sure. If that were so, then but a brief interval would
elapse before the united workmen of the world would
control its capital. To achieve commercial success the
combination of financial skill and business ability is far
more essential than the combination of labor and capi-
tal. The former qualities may be likened to the abili-
ties of a victorious general, the latter qualities to the
attributes of an army. The army may be ever so cou-
rageous, ever so strong in numbers and equipment,
but without a skilful captain no real battles can be
won.
Suggestions on the Labor Question.
I SHOULD be glad to see a careful consideration of
the following points by some capable writer on the
labor question:
First. The misdirection of associated strength. The
mere possession of power and opportunities does not
give the party controlling them infallible wisdom in
their use.
Second. The policy of confining the associations to a
few xvell-defined ohj ects of beneficial character. Squan-
dering strength by meddling with questions that can
be settled by other means brings a stormy and expen-
sive life and an early death to an association.
Third. The growing tendency all over the world to
localize administration, and to keep communities free
from entanglement with the errors and mistakes of
their neighbors. The labor movement seems to reverse
this plan, and to endeavor to make every personal diffi-
culty wide-spread and national.
Fourth. The irresponsible action by secret societies
to effect objects that should be controlled by open and
regular laws, affecting all citizens alike. If the laws
are not right, let them be properly amended.
F~/t/z. The wisdom of compelling all associations of
employers or employees to take out State charters mak-
ing them responsible corporations that can sue and be
sued; that is, making them responsible for the use of
their great power for either good or evil. To make this
provision complete, the officers controlling strikes or
lockouts should be required to give substantial secur-
ity that they will conduct their duties lawfully and with
discretion. A provision of this kind would send reck-
less and impracticatile agitators to the rear, and bring
the more prudent elements of society to the control of
the various associations.
A Reader.
General McClellans Baggage-Destroying Order.
IN THE CENTURy for May, 1889, pages 157,158, there
are letters from General J. F. Rusling and George E.
Corson, referring to a foot-note (page 142 of THE CEN-
TURY MAGAZINE for November, i888) of Messrs. Hay
and Nicolays Life of Lincoln. The foot-note quotes
from testimony of Lieutenant-colonel Alexander before
the CommitteG on the Conduct of the War, to the effect
that he saw on the evening of June 28, at General Mc-
Clellans headquarters at Savages Station, an order
directing the destruction of the baggage of the officers
and men, and he thought also the camp equipage, and
that he remonstrated with the general against allow--
ing any such order to be issued, and that he heard
afterward that the order was never promulgated, hut
suppressed. General Rusling states conclusively that
the order was issued and executed (as (loes George F.
Corson), but be thinks it singular that nobody has ever
produced a copy of the baggage-destroying order,
and that General McClellan does not mention it either
in his official report or in the writings inoluded in
McClellans Own Story. General Rusling relied
apparently upon Messrs. Hay and Nicolay 5 omission
to correct Colonel Alexanders statement as to its sup-
pression as evidence that it was in fact suppressed, so
far as accessible publications could demonstrate.
This order, however, was published in full, together
N. with the other circular orders of the same date (June
54

OPEN LETTERS.
Difficulties soon met them again, and at a new turn,
for the borrowed money was insufficient in amount to
complete the works. Experience was teaching them
that the duties of their husiness had many complexities.
They had just struggled with a very unfamiliar com-
hination of duties the making of estimates of the cost
of work and the paying for it. This was very unlike
their daily toil, which had been directed by men posses-
sing great financial skill and business ability. Their
estimates were far too low to complete even the blast-
furnace, which on the score, of economy was neverthe-
less pushed toward completion.
It was at this stage of affairs that they became thor-
oughly awakened to the saddest of business straits
inability to borrow, and their unfinished works mort-
gaged at a ruinous interest. Overwhelming ruin was
impending. It was evident that only financial skill
could secure the needed aid. To solicit such help now,
after their earlier boastings, must have caused them
much chagrin. A friend was sought in whose business
ability and integrity they reposed much confidence.
They proposed to him the transfer of the controlling
interest and the management of their scheme at a great
sacrifice, if he would but help them to success. He
gave them encouragement, for, as mentioned earlier, the
scheme appeared to casual inspection as possessed of
substantial merits. The financial part he investigated
without discovering any troublesome perplexities. But
when the basis of the scheme was carefully examined
by an expert sent by the capitalist to look over the
property, the fact was discovered, or, to speak accu-
rately, was verified (for the cohperators had been ad-
vised of it early in the history of their enterprise), that
there was no suitable fuel economically accessible.
What they bad deemed a bituminous coal was in real-
itv a lignite, which would in no way serve for iron-
smelting; and unless proper fuel could be obtained
in the vicinity there was no reason for the existence
of their scheme.
The adverse report was the death-knell to the bright
hopes of all interested. With some of their number
the shock made reason totter as their fair dream
vanished.
Ir would have been a happy event, and not less no-
table as an example, had the cotiperators succeeded.
Their signal failure is an instructive lesson. These un-
fortunate investors have come to know by costly ex-
perience that a cotiperative scheme is subject to all the
laws which circumscribe any business venture. No
special commercial deity presides over cot5peration.
In fact, such enterprises have inherent weaknesses
which render them even less exempt than others from
danger of wreck. Skill in labor is not the sole essential to
success in business, nor does capital allied with it make
it sure. If that were so, then but a brief interval would
elapse before the united workmen of the world would
control its capital. To achieve commercial success the
combination of financial skill and business ability is far
more essential than the combination of labor and capi-
tal. The former qualities may be likened to the abili-
ties of a victorious general, the latter qualities to the
attributes of an army. The army may be ever so cou-
rageous, ever so strong in numbers and equipment,
but without a skilful captain no real battles can be
won.
Suggestions on the Labor Question.
I SHOULD be glad to see a careful consideration of
the following points by some capable writer on the
labor question:
First. The misdirection of associated strength. The
mere possession of power and opportunities does not
give the party controlling them infallible wisdom in
their use.
Second. The policy of confining the associations to a
few xvell-defined ohj ects of beneficial character. Squan-
dering strength by meddling with questions that can
be settled by other means brings a stormy and expen-
sive life and an early death to an association.
Third. The growing tendency all over the world to
localize administration, and to keep communities free
from entanglement with the errors and mistakes of
their neighbors. The labor movement seems to reverse
this plan, and to endeavor to make every personal diffi-
culty wide-spread and national.
Fourth. The irresponsible action by secret societies
to effect objects that should be controlled by open and
regular laws, affecting all citizens alike. If the laws
are not right, let them be properly amended.
F~/t/z. The wisdom of compelling all associations of
employers or employees to take out State charters mak-
ing them responsible corporations that can sue and be
sued; that is, making them responsible for the use of
their great power for either good or evil. To make this
provision complete, the officers controlling strikes or
lockouts should be required to give substantial secur-
ity that they will conduct their duties lawfully and with
discretion. A provision of this kind would send reck-
less and impracticatile agitators to the rear, and bring
the more prudent elements of society to the control of
the various associations.
A Reader.
General McClellans Baggage-Destroying Order.
IN THE CENTURy for May, 1889, pages 157,158, there
are letters from General J. F. Rusling and George E.
Corson, referring to a foot-note (page 142 of THE CEN-
TURY MAGAZINE for November, i888) of Messrs. Hay
and Nicolays Life of Lincoln. The foot-note quotes
from testimony of Lieutenant-colonel Alexander before
the CommitteG on the Conduct of the War, to the effect
that he saw on the evening of June 28, at General Mc-
Clellans headquarters at Savages Station, an order
directing the destruction of the baggage of the officers
and men, and he thought also the camp equipage, and
that he remonstrated with the general against allow--
ing any such order to be issued, and that he heard
afterward that the order was never promulgated, hut
suppressed. General Rusling states conclusively that
the order was issued and executed (as (loes George F.
Corson), but be thinks it singular that nobody has ever
produced a copy of the baggage-destroying order,
and that General McClellan does not mention it either
in his official report or in the writings inoluded in
McClellans Own Story. General Rusling relied
apparently upon Messrs. Hay and Nicolay 5 omission
to correct Colonel Alexanders statement as to its sup-
pression as evidence that it was in fact suppressed, so
far as accessible publications could demonstrate.
This order, however, was published in full, together
N. with the other circular orders of the same date (June
54OPEN LIZ TTERS.
28, 1862), in Part III. of Vol. XI. of the War Records,
p. 272, and has been accessible to any one since that
volume was issued in 1884, five years before the date
of General Ruslings letter, and four years before the
publication by Messrs. Hay and Nicolay of Colonel
Alexanders statement. In the next column and same
page of THE CENTURy MAGAZINE these authors quote
from the same volume of War Records, and from the
third page preceding the circular, which is its own
refutation of Colonel Alexanders statement as to its
scope, as well as its non-promulgation and suppres-
sion. The circular order applied only to tents and all
articles not indispensable to the safety or maintenance
of the troops, and to officers unnecessary baggage,
and distinctly provided for the carrying by every divi-
sion and army corps of its entire supply of intrenching-
tools, showing that it was an order preparatory for
battle, and not for contemplated disaster. Since many
of the severely wounded were necessarily left hebind
in the field-hospitals, with surgeons and medical sup-
plies, it must he believed that there were not wagons
enough to transport this unnecessary baggage, and as
these wagons, used for ammunition and necessary
forage and subsistence, were all brought in safely to
Harrisons Bar, the presumption is that McClellan
knew his business, for a furious and successful battle
was fought on every day of the journey.
This baggage-destroying order was, in fact, an ordi-
nary incident of army life, very shocking, doubtless, to
Colonel Alexander, who was then new in experience
of actual xvar, and to civilians; but common enough in
all campaigns. In fact, the same thing occurred when
Sherman began his march to the sea; and when Grant
began theWilderness Campaign the superfluous impedi-
menta of the army were destroyed. War Records,
Vol. XXXVI., Part II., page 382, contains Burnsides
order of May 4, 1864, to abandon and destroy the
large amount of forage and subsistence stores ac-
cumulated for issue to his own troops, and which were
at Brandy Station, between Grants army and Washing-
ton, with no enemy within many miles, and directly
on the railroad then in operation to Washington; and
this merely in order to make a more rapid junction
with Grants army, then about to cross the Rapidan.
Every soldier of the war is familiar with many such
instances, which occurred in every department and in
every campaign.
I. TV. fleysinger, Al. D.,
Late CeNain U. S. A.
The Sea-Serpent at Nahant.
THAT the traditions at Nabant about the sea-ser-
pent were not evanescent may be shown by the fol-
lowing remarks, arising from the article in the June
CENTURy. When serving as a midshipman in II. M. S.
(Vars/ite in 1842 or 1843 I was allowed to accompany
Lieutenant Dickson and Mr. Jacob, purser of that ship,
to Nabant. During our visit, one of us said to the
consuls wife that we had been surprised to see fishing-
boats out on Sunday in the bay.
Oh, she said, are they out? Then I suppose
there are shoals of fish (I think she named the fish)
in the bay; they say they almost always precede the
appearance of the sea-serpent. Of course I cannot
say that those were exactly the words used, but I re-
member that there was some little talk on the subject,
more in joke than in earnest, and we went away to an
hotel to get our dinner before going back to Boston.
After dinner a man ran up and rather excitedly asked
for a telescope, as the sea-serpent was in sight. Some-
body furnished one, and we all hurried up to the group.
There, sure enough, was something very much like
what appears in the very minute sketch in the ar-
tide referred to. It was certainly moving; not, we
thought, with the tide, and was not a shoal of fish.
How far off it was I cannot say, but probably not
more than a couple of hundred yards, traveling along
at a rate of something between five and ten knots, with
a slight, undulatory motion, and leaving a wake be-
hind it. I cannot particularize any shape as to the head,
which was not raised clear of the water, though show-
ing like other lumps of dark-colored body above the
surface. I suppose we saw it for four or five minutes,
and I know that we three Englishmen thought we had
seen something very unusual. I wrote home about
what I had seen, and I think my account gave rise to
a friendly altercation between my father (then Lord
Francis Egerton) and Professor Owen, and, if I mis-
take not, to an article in one of the quarterlies. The
subject was little talked of on board the ship, prob-
ably because we were afraid of being chaffed about
our credulity; but I am sure that, except what I have
said of the ladys remark, we had had no reason to ex-
pect to see anything strange at Nahant, nor had we
ever heard of a sea-serpent as a frequenter of the bay.
F,-ancis Egerton, Admiral.
ST. GEoRGEs HILL, WEeaEluuE, ENGLAND.
The Centurys American Artists Series.
WILLIAM MERRITT CHASE. (SEE PAGE 29.)
WHATEVER place posterity may award Mr. Chase as
an artist, whatever the merits of his works may be in
the estimation of the older or younger generation of
artists, no one conversant with the art progress of this
country can doubt that he is one of the strongest per-
sonalities in our modern art life, and a most important
factor in its development. By nature an optimist, pos-
sessed of a fervent enthusiasm, artistic in everything,
an honest believer in himself, and in the future of
American art, he has impressed his thoughts and theo-
ries, fancies and idea~, upon hundreds of students and
younger artists, and has raised their enthusiasm to the
diapason of Isis own.
The Art Students League of New York has always
been fortunate in the choice of its professors, and in
the third and fourth years of its babyhood perhaps
especially so. In 1878 Mr. Walter Shirlaw took charge
of the weakling; the year following Mr. Carroll Beck-
with and Mr. Chase were added to its staff. Shirlaw
and Chase had just returned from Munich, Beckwith
fl-nm Paris. With the knowledge of European methods
possessed by these three, the artistic faithfulness and
calm gentleness of Shirlaw, the vigor and tact of Beck-
with, and the enthusiasm of Chase, the weak baby be
came a sturdy child, and at the end of its fourth year the
school had an attendance of one hundred and forty, and
a surplus of eighteen hundred dollars. Mr. Chase has
been identified with the League from that time to the
present, and is now one of the ten professors who in-
struct its students, nearly one thousand in number.
55

Francis EgertonEgerton, FrancisThe Sea-Serpent at Nahant155-156

OPEN LIZ TTERS.
28, 1862), in Part III. of Vol. XI. of the War Records,
p. 272, and has been accessible to any one since that
volume was issued in 1884, five years before the date
of General Ruslings letter, and four years before the
publication by Messrs. Hay and Nicolay of Colonel
Alexanders statement. In the next column and same
page of THE CENTURy MAGAZINE these authors quote
from the same volume of War Records, and from the
third page preceding the circular, which is its own
refutation of Colonel Alexanders statement as to its
scope, as well as its non-promulgation and suppres-
sion. The circular order applied only to tents and all
articles not indispensable to the safety or maintenance
of the troops, and to officers unnecessary baggage,
and distinctly provided for the carrying by every divi-
sion and army corps of its entire supply of intrenching-
tools, showing that it was an order preparatory for
battle, and not for contemplated disaster. Since many
of the severely wounded were necessarily left hebind
in the field-hospitals, with surgeons and medical sup-
plies, it must he believed that there were not wagons
enough to transport this unnecessary baggage, and as
these wagons, used for ammunition and necessary
forage and subsistence, were all brought in safely to
Harrisons Bar, the presumption is that McClellan
knew his business, for a furious and successful battle
was fought on every day of the journey.
This baggage-destroying order was, in fact, an ordi-
nary incident of army life, very shocking, doubtless, to
Colonel Alexander, who was then new in experience
of actual xvar, and to civilians; but common enough in
all campaigns. In fact, the same thing occurred when
Sherman began his march to the sea; and when Grant
began theWilderness Campaign the superfluous impedi-
menta of the army were destroyed. War Records,
Vol. XXXVI., Part II., page 382, contains Burnsides
order of May 4, 1864, to abandon and destroy the
large amount of forage and subsistence stores ac-
cumulated for issue to his own troops, and which were
at Brandy Station, between Grants army and Washing-
ton, with no enemy within many miles, and directly
on the railroad then in operation to Washington; and
this merely in order to make a more rapid junction
with Grants army, then about to cross the Rapidan.
Every soldier of the war is familiar with many such
instances, which occurred in every department and in
every campaign.
I. TV. fleysinger, Al. D.,
Late CeNain U. S. A.
The Sea-Serpent at Nahant.
THAT the traditions at Nabant about the sea-ser-
pent were not evanescent may be shown by the fol-
lowing remarks, arising from the article in the June
CENTURy. When serving as a midshipman in II. M. S.
(Vars/ite in 1842 or 1843 I was allowed to accompany
Lieutenant Dickson and Mr. Jacob, purser of that ship,
to Nabant. During our visit, one of us said to the
consuls wife that we had been surprised to see fishing-
boats out on Sunday in the bay.
Oh, she said, are they out? Then I suppose
there are shoals of fish (I think she named the fish)
in the bay; they say they almost always precede the
appearance of the sea-serpent. Of course I cannot
say that those were exactly the words used, but I re-
member that there was some little talk on the subject,
more in joke than in earnest, and we went away to an
hotel to get our dinner before going back to Boston.
After dinner a man ran up and rather excitedly asked
for a telescope, as the sea-serpent was in sight. Some-
body furnished one, and we all hurried up to the group.
There, sure enough, was something very much like
what appears in the very minute sketch in the ar-
tide referred to. It was certainly moving; not, we
thought, with the tide, and was not a shoal of fish.
How far off it was I cannot say, but probably not
more than a couple of hundred yards, traveling along
at a rate of something between five and ten knots, with
a slight, undulatory motion, and leaving a wake be-
hind it. I cannot particularize any shape as to the head,
which was not raised clear of the water, though show-
ing like other lumps of dark-colored body above the
surface. I suppose we saw it for four or five minutes,
and I know that we three Englishmen thought we had
seen something very unusual. I wrote home about
what I had seen, and I think my account gave rise to
a friendly altercation between my father (then Lord
Francis Egerton) and Professor Owen, and, if I mis-
take not, to an article in one of the quarterlies. The
subject was little talked of on board the ship, prob-
ably because we were afraid of being chaffed about
our credulity; but I am sure that, except what I have
said of the ladys remark, we had had no reason to ex-
pect to see anything strange at Nahant, nor had we
ever heard of a sea-serpent as a frequenter of the bay.
F,-ancis Egerton, Admiral.
ST. GEoRGEs HILL, WEeaEluuE, ENGLAND.
The Centurys American Artists Series.
WILLIAM MERRITT CHASE. (SEE PAGE 29.)
WHATEVER place posterity may award Mr. Chase as
an artist, whatever the merits of his works may be in
the estimation of the older or younger generation of
artists, no one conversant with the art progress of this
country can doubt that he is one of the strongest per-
sonalities in our modern art life, and a most important
factor in its development. By nature an optimist, pos-
sessed of a fervent enthusiasm, artistic in everything,
an honest believer in himself, and in the future of
American art, he has impressed his thoughts and theo-
ries, fancies and idea~, upon hundreds of students and
younger artists, and has raised their enthusiasm to the
diapason of Isis own.
The Art Students League of New York has always
been fortunate in the choice of its professors, and in
the third and fourth years of its babyhood perhaps
especially so. In 1878 Mr. Walter Shirlaw took charge
of the weakling; the year following Mr. Carroll Beck-
with and Mr. Chase were added to its staff. Shirlaw
and Chase had just returned from Munich, Beckwith
fl-nm Paris. With the knowledge of European methods
possessed by these three, the artistic faithfulness and
calm gentleness of Shirlaw, the vigor and tact of Beck-
with, and the enthusiasm of Chase, the weak baby be
came a sturdy child, and at the end of its fourth year the
school had an attendance of one hundred and forty, and
a surplus of eighteen hundred dollars. Mr. Chase has
been identified with the League from that time to the
present, and is now one of the ten professors who in-
struct its students, nearly one thousand in number.
55IN LIG/ITE!? VEIN.
His enthusiasm for teaching, and his sympathy for
an(l helpfulness to the students, are probably largely the
outcome of his own early struggles. Born in Indiana
in 1849, he was destined hy his father for a husiness
career; but this xvas so uncongenial that he broke over
the traces, and after a few lessons from a western painter
entered the schools of the National Academy of Design
in New York, where he remained for two years. During
his stay in this city he was befriended by the portrait-
painter J. 0. Eaton, to whom many others heside Mr.
Chase are indebted for help and encouragement in
their early art aspirations. In 1871 he went to St.
Louis, where he had some success as a portrait-painter;
in 1872 to Germany, where he became a pupil of Piloty.
He returned to New York in 1878.
l\lr. Chase is a National Academician, and President
of the Society of American Artists, and has heen the
recipient of many honors both at home and abroad.
W. Lewis Fraser.
IN LIGHTER VEIN.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN EDITOR.
By the Author of Autobiography of a Justice of the Peace.
PICTURES a~ E. W. KEMnLE.
SOME men are horn newspaper men; some achieve
experience as newspaper men; and others have
journalism thrust upon them. I do not know which is
productive of the best results.
My parents designed that I should be a lawyer, and
so I studied the law faithfully for five years, which
time was necessarily broken into a good deal hy vaca-
tions of two or three months at intervals, which I de-
voted to working by the month, an occupation of which
I was passionately fond. Whenever the study of Coke
and Blackstone began to grow irksome, and the world
began to seem colder to me when I came in contact
with it in my sedentary life as a student, I would start
up impulsively and secure outdoor employment, by
means of which I obtained a great deal of fresh air and
new clothes with the price-mark still on them.
After this broken term of study I applied for admis-
sion to the bar of Wisconsin twice, and was told both
times that I had better study some more. Some would
have resented this action on the part of the bar of Wis-
consin, hut I knew that there was no malice in it, and
so I studied some more.
What I liked about the study of the common law, and
of Blackstone especially, was that I could read the
same passage to-day that I read yesterday, and it would
seem as fresh at the second reading as it did at the first.
On the following day I could read it again, and it would
seem just as new and mysterious as it did on the pre-
ceding days.
One winter I studied in the office of Bingham and
Jenkins. It was a very cold winter indeed. It was one
of those unusual winters so common in Wisconsin. An
unusual winteT in Wisconsin may be regarded as the
rule rather than the exception. I slept in the office,
partly because I wanted to be near my work, and
where I could get up in the night to read what Justin-
ian had to say, and partly because hall bedrooms were
very high at that time except in the matter of ceilings,
and money was tighter in the circles in which I moved
than I have ever known it to be since.
The first day in the office was devoted to general
housework, and learning the combination of the safe.
This safe was in fact a large fireproof vault which con-
tained valuable documents, also pleadings, and my
blankets. I had a bed-lounge, which was used for con-
sultations during the day, and opened out for sleeping
purposes at night.
After reading a chapter on riparian rights and a few
lam mots from Justinian, I found that it was very late,
and so cold that I determined to go to bed. Then I at-
tacked the combination of the safe in order to get my
blankets, but Justinian and Blackstone had so taken
possession of my newly fledged mind that it had yielded
slightly to the strain, and forgotten everything else. The
gray dawn found me still turning the knob of the safo
eleven tinies to the right, stopping on eleven, then
nine times to the left, stopping on seven or some other
number, but always scoring a failure, and pausing
each time to warm my hands under the friendly sbeltcr
of the roof of my mouth.
That night was the coldest in the history of the State
of Wisconsin, and the woodshed was also locked up at
the time. The following summer I went up into Bur-
nett County to look up a location for the practice of the
law in order to have it all ready in case I should be acci-
dentally admitted to the bar. The county-seat of Burnett
County consisted at that time only of a boarding-house
for lumbermen, surrounded by the dark-blue billows
of a boundless huckleberry patch. There was also a log
hovel with a dirt floor, in which a paper was published.
156
I ATTACKED THE cOMBINATION.

Edgar Wilson NyeNye, Edgar WilsonAutobiography of an Editor156-159

IN LIG/ITE!? VEIN.
His enthusiasm for teaching, and his sympathy for
an(l helpfulness to the students, are probably largely the
outcome of his own early struggles. Born in Indiana
in 1849, he was destined hy his father for a husiness
career; but this xvas so uncongenial that he broke over
the traces, and after a few lessons from a western painter
entered the schools of the National Academy of Design
in New York, where he remained for two years. During
his stay in this city he was befriended by the portrait-
painter J. 0. Eaton, to whom many others heside Mr.
Chase are indebted for help and encouragement in
their early art aspirations. In 1871 he went to St.
Louis, where he had some success as a portrait-painter;
in 1872 to Germany, where he became a pupil of Piloty.
He returned to New York in 1878.
l\lr. Chase is a National Academician, and President
of the Society of American Artists, and has heen the
recipient of many honors both at home and abroad.
W. Lewis Fraser.
IN LIGHTER VEIN.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN EDITOR.
By the Author of Autobiography of a Justice of the Peace.
PICTURES a~ E. W. KEMnLE.
SOME men are horn newspaper men; some achieve
experience as newspaper men; and others have
journalism thrust upon them. I do not know which is
productive of the best results.
My parents designed that I should be a lawyer, and
so I studied the law faithfully for five years, which
time was necessarily broken into a good deal hy vaca-
tions of two or three months at intervals, which I de-
voted to working by the month, an occupation of which
I was passionately fond. Whenever the study of Coke
and Blackstone began to grow irksome, and the world
began to seem colder to me when I came in contact
with it in my sedentary life as a student, I would start
up impulsively and secure outdoor employment, by
means of which I obtained a great deal of fresh air and
new clothes with the price-mark still on them.
After this broken term of study I applied for admis-
sion to the bar of Wisconsin twice, and was told both
times that I had better study some more. Some would
have resented this action on the part of the bar of Wis-
consin, hut I knew that there was no malice in it, and
so I studied some more.
What I liked about the study of the common law, and
of Blackstone especially, was that I could read the
same passage to-day that I read yesterday, and it would
seem as fresh at the second reading as it did at the first.
On the following day I could read it again, and it would
seem just as new and mysterious as it did on the pre-
ceding days.
One winter I studied in the office of Bingham and
Jenkins. It was a very cold winter indeed. It was one
of those unusual winters so common in Wisconsin. An
unusual winteT in Wisconsin may be regarded as the
rule rather than the exception. I slept in the office,
partly because I wanted to be near my work, and
where I could get up in the night to read what Justin-
ian had to say, and partly because hall bedrooms were
very high at that time except in the matter of ceilings,
and money was tighter in the circles in which I moved
than I have ever known it to be since.
The first day in the office was devoted to general
housework, and learning the combination of the safe.
This safe was in fact a large fireproof vault which con-
tained valuable documents, also pleadings, and my
blankets. I had a bed-lounge, which was used for con-
sultations during the day, and opened out for sleeping
purposes at night.
After reading a chapter on riparian rights and a few
lam mots from Justinian, I found that it was very late,
and so cold that I determined to go to bed. Then I at-
tacked the combination of the safe in order to get my
blankets, but Justinian and Blackstone had so taken
possession of my newly fledged mind that it had yielded
slightly to the strain, and forgotten everything else. The
gray dawn found me still turning the knob of the safo
eleven tinies to the right, stopping on eleven, then
nine times to the left, stopping on seven or some other
number, but always scoring a failure, and pausing
each time to warm my hands under the friendly sbeltcr
of the roof of my mouth.
That night was the coldest in the history of the State
of Wisconsin, and the woodshed was also locked up at
the time. The following summer I went up into Bur-
nett County to look up a location for the practice of the
law in order to have it all ready in case I should be acci-
dentally admitted to the bar. The county-seat of Burnett
County consisted at that time only of a boarding-house
for lumbermen, surrounded by the dark-blue billows
of a boundless huckleberry patch. There was also a log
hovel with a dirt floor, in which a paper was published.
156
I ATTACKED THE cOMBINATION.IN LIGHTER VEIN.
It subsisted on the county printing, which must have
been worth at least $85 per year or even more at that
time. Afterward the price was cut down.
When I went into the office, the editor was bemoan-
ing his sad lot, most of which was overgrown with jack
pine and Chippewa Indians. He wanted much to get
away from the steady grind ofjournalism, he said. He
had been there over eight weeks, and had had practically
no vacation whatever. He wanted to get away for a
week to rest his tired brain. In fact he wanted to go
up on Lake Superior for a weeks fishing, but could
get no one to assume editorial control of the paper.
I said that I would. I said that I should be glad to as-
sociate myself with the paper for a week, and to work
his public-opinion molds for him.
He went away in the early morning, leaving me in
charge of the paper and a middle-aged cat with nine
newly fledged little ones. Charlie Talboys (the com-
positor) and I ran the paper that week, and I tried to
learn from the back part of the dictionary how to mark
proof, but got interested in some pictures of the human
frame in health and disease, and so neglected the proof
till time to go to press.
I wrote two scathing editorials for this pap6r, which
had a good deal to do with bringing on the war, it was
said. When I see now what that war cost in blood and
bitterness and vain regret, of course I am sorry about
it; but then I was young and impulsive, and had never
brought on a war. I would know better now.
The year after this I went to Wyoming Territory,
thinking that in the crude state of affairs there at the
time I might possibly be admitted to the bar under an
assume(l name. I had of course given bonds in Wiscon-
sin for my regular, annual examination for admission,
but I decided to jump my bail and go west, where the
bar was less conservative.
In Laramie City the regular term of court for the
Second judicial District was in session, Judge Blair
presiding. Just here let me step aside to say a word
of Judge Blair, a gentleman from West Virginia, who
took charge of me, and whose memory will always have
a large, expensive frame around it in my heart. I ap-
plied for admission to the bar, as I had been in the
habit of doing wherever I had lived, and Judge Blair
appointed a committee of kindly but inquisitive lawyers
who talked with me all of one summer afternoon. I
can still remember bow warm the room was. As the
gloaming began to gloam on the foot-hills, and the bull-
skinners song came across the river, the committee
reported that I had, on cross-examination, so contra-
dicted my answers made on the direct examination,
that my testimony was of little value; yet it was de-
cided to admit me to the bar of Wyoming, provided I
would agree not to practise.
On the day of my arrival in Laramie, however, Judge
Blair had said to me that the prospects for a young
lao-yer in Wyoming who had very little money, and no
acquaintances, were very poor indeed; but if I could do
newspaper work, he thought he could help me to a place.
As I saw right away that the Judge was my friend,
I told him that it might be well to do that while wait-
ing for my library to arrive. He laughed, and led me
to the office of The Daily Sentinel, owned by Dr.
James H. Hayford, to whom I was introduced. Dr.
Hayford was a keen-eyed man with chin-whiskers, who
wrote with a hard pencil sharpened from time to time
on a flat file. He wrote with such earnestness that one
could read his ablest editorials on any of the ten sheets
of blank paper under the one he was writing on. He
said that the paper could not afford to pay me what I
was really worth, very likely, hut if $50 per month
would make it interesting, he would he glad to have
me try it for thirty days. Fifty dollars per month was
so much better than the grazing at that season of the
year, that I accepted it; not too hurriedly, but after
counting 100 in my mind, and giving the impression
that I was not too prompt to avail myself of the offer.
The Sentinel was a morning paper, but I used to
be able to wash up about seven oclock in the evening,
and attend Alexanders Theater while the boys went to
press. The performance on the stage at Alexander
was not of a high order. The talent was not great, and
the perfori~~ance far from meritorious, but in the audi-
ence it was more thrilling. It took me five weeks to
heal up the scalp of my room-mate so that the hair
would cover the furrow made by a bullet one evening
at the theater. Finally the paper was left almost en-
tirely in my hands, and I became more enterprising, till
at last we got to press sometimes as early as five or half-
past five oclock in the afternoon. Then we got to horo-
scoping the theatrical news up to eleven oclock, and
printing it as fact. This was dangerous business. Fore-
casting the evening news and going to press at tea-time
are always hazardous. It used to be done very success-
fully in Washington, D. C., but I was never successful.
Once we had a concert for the benefit of the church,
for I was quite a church-worker at that time. Even
now old citizens of Laramie City point with pride to
their church debt, and if you ask them who organized
it and fostered it, they will tell you with tears in their
eyes that I did it. This concert I desired to see, and
yet I wished to get the paper off my hands first, so I
wrote it up in an unbiased way, and then dressed for
the evening by removing my trousers legs from the tops
of my boots, and having the wrinkles ironed out at
Beards tailor-shop while I waited.
Among the features of the concert I wrote up a
young lady who was on the program for a piano solo.
She could play first-rate, was fair to look upon, and I
gave her what The London Times would call a
rattling good notice. But she did not play, and so I
was jeered at a good deal by both of our subscribers.
I remember her especially because as one of the en-
tertainment committee I had to move her piano to the
hall. She could not use the one that belonged to the
hall, but wanted her very own instrument, a hollow-
chested old wardrobe of a thing with deformed legs~
It cost five dollars to move a piano in those days
five dollars each way. So I paid that to cart the old
casket over to the ball, and five dollars to cart it back,
making, as the i~eady calculator will see almost at a
glance, ten dollars for the round trip. She did not play
at all, hut when I had the machine taken back, she
ordered it (lelivered at another house. The family had
taken this time to move, and I had simply moved the
piano for them.
Even now I cannot read with dry eyes the fulsome
description of her playing which I prematurely wrote,
and which, in the light of a more thorough knowledge of
musical terms, should have been edited by our home
band.
At this time the Indians began to become restless, and
57IN LIGHTER VEIV
PETER HOLTS RESTAURANT.
to hold scalpfite ckamps~7;vs along the road to the Black
Hills. Sitting Bull had taken a firm stand, and thirty-
eight milch cows belonging to a friend of mine. He
had also sent into the post his ultimatum. He sent it
in, I believe, to get it refilled. War was soon declared.
I remember writing up the first Indian victims. They
were a German and his wife and servant who were
massacred on the road outside of town, and buried at
Laramie. It was not a pleasant experience.
At this time I was asked by Charles De Young of the
San Francisco Chronicle tojoin General Custer on the
Rosebud, and to write up the fight which it was presumed
would take place very shortly. Mr. De Young was to
pass through our place at about five oclock in the after-
noon, and I was to report to him then at the train. This
was a great promotion, but I feared that it would be too
sudden. From the pasty little think-room of the Sen-
tii~elto a bright immortality beyond the grave was too
trying to the lungs, I feared. I thought it all over, how-
ever, and had decided to go at five oclock. I bade good-
by to all those friends to whom I was not indebted, and
resolved to communicate with the others by mail. I could
have reached the train myself, but I was too late to get
my trunk checked, and I could not go on the war-path
without my trunk. So I did not go; I remained on the
staff of The Sentinel, and went through some priva-
tions which I shall never forget while I live. I allude
especially to the time when I boarded out a twenty-five
(lollar account for advertising a restaurant owned by
Peter Holt. I was about to say that the restaurant was
run by Peter Holt, but that would betray a hectic
inaagination on nay part, for it just ran itself. I had
been reared tenderly, and the restaurant of Peter Holt
did more to make me wisla I was back home in the
States where nice clover hay and cut feed were plenty
than anything that ever happened to me.
Dr. Hayford was a good man, and his soul, I think,
was as pure as any soul that I ever saw which had been
exposed as much as his had; but I have always won-
dered why, instead of salary, he gave me power of at-
torney to collect claims against restaurants in a poor
state of preservation, and stores that did not keep my
class of goods.
From The Sentinel I went into official life for a
time as a justice of the peace, and then, with Judge
Blair as the moving spirit, the old Boomerang was
started. I bought the material, and then edited the
paper about three years, during which time I got to-
gether a collection of poverty and squalor which is still
referred to with local pride by the pioneers there.
It was at this tinae also that I was chosen by the
governor to act as notary public. The appointment
came to me wholly unsought on my part. When I
went to bed at night I had no more idea that I would
be a notary public in the morning than the reader has.
It was a case where the office sought the man, and not
the man the office. I held this position for six years,
an(l no one can say that in that time I did a wrong of-
ficial act as notary puhlic. My seal cost me $6, an(l
in the six years that I held the office I swore eighteen
men at twenty-five cents each, two of whom afterward
paid me. I was obliged to give a bond, however, as
notary public. I do not know why, exactly, for the fees
were my own, if I got any. I used to deal with a boot
and shoe man whom I will call Quidd, and we were on
friendly terms. I bought my boots of him, and scorched
the heels thereof on his hot stove on winter evenings,
when times were dull and the wintry hIatt outside
reduced tlae profits in the cattle business.
I casually asked Mr. Quidd to sign my bond as no-
tary public, and told him what a sinecure it would be
for him; but to my astonishment his chin quivered, lais
eye grew dim with unshed tears, as he told me, with his
hand trembling in mine, that he wished he could, hut
that he had promised his dying mother,just as the light
of the glory world lighted up her eyes, that he would
never sign a bond or note with any one.
I said: Do not mind this, Mr. Quidd; it is a trifling
matter. Others will sign. I will get some compara-
tive stranger to sign with me. Do not feel badly over
- it. On the way home I got Edward Ivinson, Gen-
eral Worth, Otto Gramm, Henry Wagner, Abraham
Idleman, Charles Kuster, Dr. Harris, William H.
Root, and James Milton Sherrod, the squaw-man of the
Buffalo Wallow, to sign my bond. All of these were
men of probity and property, and the bond was said to be
the hest notarial bond that was ever floated in Wyoming.
On the following day a case in my court as justice
of the peace required a bond on the part of a saloon-
keeper, and he went out a moment to get a surety.
He was hardly out of the office before he returned with
the name of Mr. Quidd. After that I bought my boots
elsewhere. I could not trust a man who would so soon
forget his promise to his dying mother. Years have
flown by, and gray hairs have come on the head of
Mr. Quidd, though I laave nt a gray hair yet, 4nd may
not have for years, but I have always purchased my
boots elsewhere.
The Boomerang was first printed over a shoe-
store; but the quarters were small, and, I might also add,
extremely seldom from a box-office standpoint, and our
insurance was two per cent. per annum; so we removed
to the parlor floor of a thrifty livery-stable on a side
street. The only vacation I had while there was at one
time when I wrote two weeks editorials ahead, and went
away for a fortnight. No one who has not tried it can
realize bow hard it is to prepare two weeks editorials
ahead and have them appropriate. Unforeseen changes
are always certain to occur, and I am sure that now,
after years of study and experience, I would not again
try to do that on the salary I then thought I would get.
It was during these days that I got mixed up in a
fight for the post-office. I did not want the post-office,
but I wanted Charlie Spalding to have it, and so I used
138our columns for that purpose. Our columns were ever
open to almost anything, and so I used them. But we
could not get Spalding appointed, so he said to me one
day, You get the office, and I will run it for you. At
this time the other paper irritated me by a personal
editorial which referred to me in a way that would irri-
tate the ice-cream cast of Patience. It was then that I
telegraphed my application, and it was acted upon at
once hy the Presideut. I wrote to him, expressing my
thanks, and offering to correspond regularly with him,
and to aid him always whenever he got into hot water;
for, I added, I live for those who love me, whether
I lay up anything or not.
This letter Mr. Arthur permitted to go to the press
and the correspondents at Washington, for, of course,
he was naturally proud and happy over it; hut it was
an official letter, or else it was a private letter, and in
either event it was not for the public. Besides, it drew
out adverse criticism, especially from the London press.
The London press asserted that this was no way to
write to a President.
I held the post-office a year, and then startled the
ranks of the Republican party by resigning. I left the
office and a fire-proof safe, which was too heavy to travel
with, and which the porter told me he could not allow
me to bring into the car.
The Boomerang newspaper was regarded as a
prosperous enterprise by those who did not have to
pa~ the bills. It was extensively copied by the press of
America, and even abroad. The news companies began
to order it, and on& c opy was taken in Europe. All this
made me proud and cheerful, but it did not seem to ap-
peal to the Chinaman who was my laundress at the time.
I can see now that a paper like The Boomerang,
in the natural course of events, could not by any pos-
sible means have become a valuable piece of property,
except as a sort of gymnasium for the editor to prac-
tise industry and economy in. For that purpose it af-
forded good, light, airy room, and while not in actual
training I could go and play in the haymow across the
hall. Papers of this character have never paid. We
had everybodyin theTerritory on our subseriptionlist,
everybody outside the reservation, and after the sum-
mer massacre was over, and the Indians came back to
the reservation for the winter, some of them used to
subscribe also; but even if we had every man who read,
we did not have more than enough to squeeze along.
Kind-hearted exchanges copied us, and credited us day
after day and week after week; but still we languished,
and even the stockholders could not seem to under-
stand that a paper might be copied all over several con-
tinents and yet die of inanition. I proved to my own
entire satisfaction that a paper may be cheered, copied,
audI indorsed abroad when no one wi~ indorse the edi-
tors own paper at the home bank, and that approval
of the editorial policy may overwhelm him at the mo-
ment when he is deciding u-hether to put the molasses
in the roller composition or to eat it himself.
There is a grim and ghastly humor the humor that
is born of a pathetic philosophywhich now and then
strikes me in reading the bright and keen-witted work
of our American paragraphers. It is a humor that may
be crystallized by hunger and sorrow and tears. It is
not found elsewhere as it is in America. It is out of
the question in England, because an Englishman can-
not poke fun at himself. He cannot joke about an
59
empty flour-barrel. We can; especially if by doing it
we may swap the joke for another barrel of flour. We
can never be a nation of snobs so long as we are will-
i~ig to poke fun at ourselves. It saves us from making
asses of ourselves. To-day many a well-fed special
writer goes on Saturday evening to the cashier of a
prosperous metropolitan journal for the reward he
earned years ago on some struggling, starving, wailing
bantling that is now sleeping in the valley.
There are gray streaks in his hair, and a wrinkle here
and there that came when he walked the floor of nights
with that feeble, puling, colicky journalistic child; but
with those gray hairs he got wisdom and he learned
patience. He learned to be more prodigal with his
humor, and more economical with his moans, and when
he got a little grist of sunshine, he called in the neigh-
bors, and when one woe came as the advance agent of
a still greater, allied woe, traveling by means of its own
special train, he worked it up into a pathetic story and
made some one else the hero of it.
Edgar W. Nyc.
A Thanksgiving Dozen.
USE to think Thanksgivun Day
Was jist made to preach an pray!
Nowdays whole endurun meetun
You jist set an think of eatun.
Preacher talks, but ever sinner
Sets his mouth for turkey dinner;
An to say T/zanksgiaun why,
Means to feast an jollify:
Harvest over, work all done,
Ready for the winters fun,
All the fambly home agin
Round the table pitchun in!
Then they set around an look
Like the picters :n a book
All the afternoon, jist glad
To be back with main an dad!
Las Thanksgivun I went down
T ole man Goods, not fur from town;
J ist a dozen people there,
After church at Zions Hill,
Come to talk an eat their fill.
Ole man Good, with high-macbed hair,
Soap-suds white, an long an thin;
XVhiskers underneath his chin,
Tryun to dodge the specs, I spose,
That was reachun down his nose.
Then Mis Good, home-like an smirkun,
Short an dumpy, allays workun,
Makun all the compny feel s
Ef they s comun home to meals!
Granma Good in specs an cap,
With her knittun in her lap,
Tilly hangun on her cheer,
Talkun loud in grannys ear.
Then the folks begin to come:
Uncle Joe Biggs, thinks he s sonic,
Dressed up slick as our ole cat
In black broadcloth an plug hat,
With gold cane an finger-ring,
Lookun peart as anything;
Then that fat Aunt Sally Biggs
Waddles long in all her rigs
Black silk dress, bonnet an shawl,
Veil an gloves an parasol
Never missed a feast or show,
First to come an last to go!
My, oh, my! I m tired to death;
Lemme rest an git my breath
Fore I speak, says she. I thought
IN LIGHTER VEIN

Richard Lew DawsonDawson, Richard LewA Thanksgiving Dozen159-160

our columns for that purpose. Our columns were ever
open to almost anything, and so I used them. But we
could not get Spalding appointed, so he said to me one
day, You get the office, and I will run it for you. At
this time the other paper irritated me by a personal
editorial which referred to me in a way that would irri-
tate the ice-cream cast of Patience. It was then that I
telegraphed my application, and it was acted upon at
once hy the Presideut. I wrote to him, expressing my
thanks, and offering to correspond regularly with him,
and to aid him always whenever he got into hot water;
for, I added, I live for those who love me, whether
I lay up anything or not.
This letter Mr. Arthur permitted to go to the press
and the correspondents at Washington, for, of course,
he was naturally proud and happy over it; hut it was
an official letter, or else it was a private letter, and in
either event it was not for the public. Besides, it drew
out adverse criticism, especially from the London press.
The London press asserted that this was no way to
write to a President.
I held the post-office a year, and then startled the
ranks of the Republican party by resigning. I left the
office and a fire-proof safe, which was too heavy to travel
with, and which the porter told me he could not allow
me to bring into the car.
The Boomerang newspaper was regarded as a
prosperous enterprise by those who did not have to
pa~ the bills. It was extensively copied by the press of
America, and even abroad. The news companies began
to order it, and on& c opy was taken in Europe. All this
made me proud and cheerful, but it did not seem to ap-
peal to the Chinaman who was my laundress at the time.
I can see now that a paper like The Boomerang,
in the natural course of events, could not by any pos-
sible means have become a valuable piece of property,
except as a sort of gymnasium for the editor to prac-
tise industry and economy in. For that purpose it af-
forded good, light, airy room, and while not in actual
training I could go and play in the haymow across the
hall. Papers of this character have never paid. We
had everybodyin theTerritory on our subseriptionlist,
everybody outside the reservation, and after the sum-
mer massacre was over, and the Indians came back to
the reservation for the winter, some of them used to
subscribe also; but even if we had every man who read,
we did not have more than enough to squeeze along.
Kind-hearted exchanges copied us, and credited us day
after day and week after week; but still we languished,
and even the stockholders could not seem to under-
stand that a paper might be copied all over several con-
tinents and yet die of inanition. I proved to my own
entire satisfaction that a paper may be cheered, copied,
audI indorsed abroad when no one wi~ indorse the edi-
tors own paper at the home bank, and that approval
of the editorial policy may overwhelm him at the mo-
ment when he is deciding u-hether to put the molasses
in the roller composition or to eat it himself.
There is a grim and ghastly humor the humor that
is born of a pathetic philosophywhich now and then
strikes me in reading the bright and keen-witted work
of our American paragraphers. It is a humor that may
be crystallized by hunger and sorrow and tears. It is
not found elsewhere as it is in America. It is out of
the question in England, because an Englishman can-
not poke fun at himself. He cannot joke about an
59
empty flour-barrel. We can; especially if by doing it
we may swap the joke for another barrel of flour. We
can never be a nation of snobs so long as we are will-
i~ig to poke fun at ourselves. It saves us from making
asses of ourselves. To-day many a well-fed special
writer goes on Saturday evening to the cashier of a
prosperous metropolitan journal for the reward he
earned years ago on some struggling, starving, wailing
bantling that is now sleeping in the valley.
There are gray streaks in his hair, and a wrinkle here
and there that came when he walked the floor of nights
with that feeble, puling, colicky journalistic child; but
with those gray hairs he got wisdom and he learned
patience. He learned to be more prodigal with his
humor, and more economical with his moans, and when
he got a little grist of sunshine, he called in the neigh-
bors, and when one woe came as the advance agent of
a still greater, allied woe, traveling by means of its own
special train, he worked it up into a pathetic story and
made some one else the hero of it.
Edgar W. Nyc.
A Thanksgiving Dozen.
USE to think Thanksgivun Day
Was jist made to preach an pray!
Nowdays whole endurun meetun
You jist set an think of eatun.
Preacher talks, but ever sinner
Sets his mouth for turkey dinner;
An to say T/zanksgiaun why,
Means to feast an jollify:
Harvest over, work all done,
Ready for the winters fun,
All the fambly home agin
Round the table pitchun in!
Then they set around an look
Like the picters :n a book
All the afternoon, jist glad
To be back with main an dad!
Las Thanksgivun I went down
T ole man Goods, not fur from town;
J ist a dozen people there,
After church at Zions Hill,
Come to talk an eat their fill.
Ole man Good, with high-macbed hair,
Soap-suds white, an long an thin;
XVhiskers underneath his chin,
Tryun to dodge the specs, I spose,
That was reachun down his nose.
Then Mis Good, home-like an smirkun,
Short an dumpy, allays workun,
Makun all the compny feel s
Ef they s comun home to meals!
Granma Good in specs an cap,
With her knittun in her lap,
Tilly hangun on her cheer,
Talkun loud in grannys ear.
Then the folks begin to come:
Uncle Joe Biggs, thinks he s sonic,
Dressed up slick as our ole cat
In black broadcloth an plug hat,
With gold cane an finger-ring,
Lookun peart as anything;
Then that fat Aunt Sally Biggs
Waddles long in all her rigs
Black silk dress, bonnet an shawl,
Veil an gloves an parasol
Never missed a feast or show,
First to come an last to go!
My, oh, my! I m tired to death;
Lemme rest an git my breath
Fore I speak, says she. I thought
IN LIGHTER VEININ LIGHTER
I d jist drap afore I got
Hyur; my head roars like a drum.
How s yer folks? the preacher come?
Hyur, Joe, take my things, says she.
An Mis Good says No; let me.
Then the preacher, slim an tail,
Revernt Peter Mendenhall,
Solemn-like, white tie an collar
Seemed as if he could nt swaller!
He come leadun his hoy Dick,
At was up to ever trick;
Worst hoy in the neighborhood,
Cept to little Tilly Good.
Preacher shuk hans with the others:
Howdy, sister Good, an brothers
Good an l3iggs, an sister too;
Mother Good, an how are you?
Bright day, friends, but somewhat chilly
Dick, my son, shake hans with Tilly.
Then come, clost behind the preacber,
Mary Ann Kincaid, our teacher,
Plump an sweet an full o fun,
With her feller, young Lishe Dunn;
Then our Kaintuck politician,
Colonel Isaac Slathers, fishun
For a office, changun coats
See f e could nt make some votes.
He was with Lucindy Mitten,
01 maid come from Boston, gittun
Younger to him ever day,
With the wrinkles blushed away!
That s the dozen hub ? what, me?
Bakers dozen, dont ye see!
Purty soon Mis Good says, Walk
Out to dinner; you kin talk
list as well around the table.
Then, Mis Good, we wont be able
To do jistus to your cookun,
Uncle Joe Biggs says, a-lookun
At the others with a wink.
I could eat a ba,l, I think,
Says Lucindy, with a grin at
Colonel Ike. Ef you-all s in it,
I could too, be says to her.
Colonel Slathers! Sakes! says she,
What a cannibull you he!
What Lishe said I could nt he-ur;
All I know is Mary Ann
Blushed an hid behind her fan,
An Dick whispered loud to Tilly:
Oh, what spoons! They re awful silly.
When the compny all was sot,
Dinner spread out smokun hot,
Good says: Brother Mendenhall,
Ast a blessun. Jist as all
Bowed their heads, Lucindy Mitten
Screams out: fVoit / They s tlzirt~en sett,,n
At the table! Well,~Mis Good
An Aunt Sally jumped an stood
Pale as death; the others laft,
An said: Pshaw! Set down! an cbaffed,
Like: Now you dont blieve such stuff!
That put Cindy in a huff,
An she snapped out: Yes, I do;
An it allays does come true:
Ef thirteen eats dinner he-ur
One will die before a yur/
Me or somen else must wait
Dont ketch me a-temptun fate!
An she stood there in her place,
VEIN.
Preacher wastun to say grace
Gittun purty serous case,
An somehow they looked at me /
Ony one way I could see,
So I gits up from my cheer,
An says I : Now, looky he-ur:
Caint spare granma or the preacher;
Would nt take Lishe from the teacher;
Colonel Ike is Cindys beau;
Dick an Tilly s friends, I know;
Others is two married p~~
Guess I in bout the one to spare!
Now I 11 jist shove hoots down he-ur,
An ast Nervy Whittaker;
An if Mis Good dont object,
She 11 come eat with us, 1 spect.
You jist drive ahead, says I;
We 11 ketch up on cake an pie!
Thats the ticket! Yes; goon!
Hurry, fore the turkey s gone,
For it s ready now to serve.
Yes, Tom; go an show yer Nerve I
Ort to beerd em clap an shout
As I left em an skinned out!
Reglar Injun summer day;
Air was blue, an woods was gray,
Sun a-shinun lonesome red,
Nervys orchard lookun dead;
But her chimbly smokun there
Stirred my blood, an, I declare,
I was feard to go see her
Little Nervy Whittaker!
Never felt that way before,
An when I was at their door,
An she opened it, I stood
Stoopud as a log o wood;
Could nt speak or could nt stir,
Could nt even look at her,
Till she said: Why, come in, Tom;
Whur on earth did you come from?
Then I looked down at her laws,
What a purty girl she was!
Brown eyes dancun in her head,
Lips an cheeks a-flamun red,
Makun whiter them white teeth
An her white neck underneath
Did nt know what I was bout!
But I mumbled sompun out.
An she speaks UI): Well, I d say!
Me leave home Thanksgivun Day?
No, sir; you must stay with me
Shant be, paw? An paw, says e:
Why, of course, he 11 eat with us,
Or they s gon to be a fuss!
Well, I stayed, as you might know
Nothun could a made me go;
An fore night I plainly seen
Cindy s right about thirteen,
An my beun the odd one
Is whur my good luck begun!
So, as I was go n to sax,
Comun this Thanksgivun Day,
Cindy Slathers an her man,
Lishe an his wife, Mary Ann,
Biggses, Goods, an Mendenhall,
Granma, Tilly, Dick, an all
Nervys folks, a dozen more,
They 11 be down to our house, shore,
To git up for Nerve an me
Our Thanksgivun jubilee!
Richard Lew Dawson.
THE DE VINNE PRESS NFW YORK
i 6o

Robert Underwood JohnsonJohnson, Robert UnderwoodMadonna of Dagnan-Bouveret163-164

CI-JRJS TMZ4S NUMBER.
THE CENTURY MAGAZINE.
\OL. XLV. DECEMBER, 1892. No. 2.
A MADONNA OF DAGNAN-BOUVERET.
I.
O H, brooding thought of dread
Oh, calm of coming grief!
Oh, mist of tears unshed
Above that shining head
That for an hour too brief
Lies on thy nurturing knee!
How shil we pity thee,
Mother of sorrowssorrows yet to be!
II.
That babyhood unknown
With all of bright or fair
That lingers in our own
By every hearth has shone.
Each year that light we share
As Bethlehem saxv it shine.
Be ours the comfort thine,
Mother of consolations all divine!
A(
2XK7
Copyright, 1892 by I HI CF N I u& v C 0 All rights rcservcd.
x6~PICTURESQUE NEW YORK.1
i. natural man. Its charmif I must attempt a
bit of defining myself is made up of harmo-
the last century, Sir Uvedale nious and alien elements. It must have some
Price, preaching the new gospel elements which speak to the esthetic sense, and
of reaction against formality in also some which speak to that love of sharp
gardening art, tried through a and telling contrasts, to that delight in the
whole volume to explain pic- fortuitous and surprising, which is equally in-
turesqueness. By dint of piling up descriptions, nate in our souls.
in very pretty phrases, he succeeded. But he Thus the essence of picturesqueness is van-
nowhere hit upon a good quotable definition, ety; and the charm of variety is more easily
and I do not think that any writer since his appreciated than the charm of simple and
day has found one. However, many writers pure perfection. More attractive to the aver-
have tried to define beauty with no better age tourist than even the cathedrals, which
success, and yet most people know, although
they cannot tell, what beauty and picturesque-
ness are.
Of course, with the one as with the other, in-
dividual estimates differ. But divergence in taste
is greater, I think, as regards beauty than as
regards picturesqueness. Only that long prac-
tice of the eye and mind which we call cultiva-
tion can fully reveal the higher kinds of beauty;
but picturesqueness instantly appeals to the
1 With nine etchings by Charles F. W. Mielatz,
reproduced by wood-engraving, and three pen-and-ink
drawings by T. R. Manly, on page 174.
stand undisturbed, are the ruined abbeys of
England those abbeys to which the destroy-
ing hand of the Reformer and the decorating
hand of Nature have given a greater amount
of variety, a larger element of the unex-
pected, a higher degree of picturesqueness.
There must be many persons who would rather
look at the Parthenon in fragments than see
it as it was before the Turkish bomb exploded.
I am sure that a quite naive, untrained eye
would rather see its fragments picturesquely
overgrown with ivy and sprinkled with wild
flowers than beautifully naked under the un
164
THE BATTERY.

PICTURESQUE NEW YORK.1
i. natural man. Its charmif I must attempt a
bit of defining myself is made up of harmo-
the last century, Sir Uvedale nious and alien elements. It must have some
Price, preaching the new gospel elements which speak to the esthetic sense, and
of reaction against formality in also some which speak to that love of sharp
gardening art, tried through a and telling contrasts, to that delight in the
whole volume to explain pic- fortuitous and surprising, which is equally in-
turesqueness. By dint of piling up descriptions, nate in our souls.
in very pretty phrases, he succeeded. But he Thus the essence of picturesqueness is van-
nowhere hit upon a good quotable definition, ety; and the charm of variety is more easily
and I do not think that any writer since his appreciated than the charm of simple and
day has found one. However, many writers pure perfection. More attractive to the aver-
have tried to define beauty with no better age tourist than even the cathedrals, which
success, and yet most people know, although
they cannot tell, what beauty and picturesque-
ness are.
Of course, with the one as with the other, in-
dividual estimates differ. But divergence in taste
is greater, I think, as regards beauty than as
regards picturesqueness. Only that long prac-
tice of the eye and mind which we call cultiva-
tion can fully reveal the higher kinds of beauty;
but picturesqueness instantly appeals to the
1 With nine etchings by Charles F. W. Mielatz,
reproduced by wood-engraving, and three pen-and-ink
drawings by T. R. Manly, on page 174.
stand undisturbed, are the ruined abbeys of
England those abbeys to which the destroy-
ing hand of the Reformer and the decorating
hand of Nature have given a greater amount
of variety, a larger element of the unex-
pected, a higher degree of picturesqueness.
There must be many persons who would rather
look at the Parthenon in fragments than see
it as it was before the Turkish bomb exploded.
I am sure that a quite naive, untrained eye
would rather see its fragments picturesquely
overgrown with ivy and sprinkled with wild
flowers than beautifully naked under the un
164
THE BATTERY. PICTURESQUE NEW YORK r
cinuded sun. And such an eye would admire
Alcibiades more in the peaked cap, scalloped
jerkin, and pointed shoes of the fifteenth cen-
tury, than draped in the straight folds of a
chiton, or passing unclothed from the wrestling-
ground to the bath.
Nevertheless, not all eyes can appreciate
picturesqueness wherever it occurs. While es-
thetic cultivation leads one gradually to rank
the beautiful above the picturesque, at the same
time it opens the senses to many forms of pic-
turesqueness hitherto unperceived. It is a tru-
ism to say that a landscape-painter finds a
hundred things paintable, pictorial (and this
comes very near to meaning picturesque), which
the Philistine finds absolutely uninteresting or
actually repulsive. Why should this be? It is
because, as I have said, some elements of real
beauty must enter into the picturesque, and
the artists eye is so trained to seek out beau-
ties that it finds them, very often, ~x here the
untaught eye sees unmitigated ugliness.
Among the things it has learned to value
are beauties of light and shadow. Ordinary
folk seldom notice these. To them a lrnd-
scape is the same landscape at dawn, at noon,
and at dusV To the artist it is three (lifferent
landscapes at these different hours; and at one
hour, perhaps, is totally uninteresting, at an-
other exquisitely lovely. Again, the artist notes
charms of color with especial keenness. And,
again, he has trained himself to see things as
COENTIES SLIP. i66 PICTURESQUE NEW YORK
a whole, when they look best that way, with-
out being disturbed by their details, and, in a
contrary case, to forget the whole in admira-
tion for certain features or effects.
Thus the artist sees more in nature, and sees
it better, than the ordinary man. And as it is
with the spontaneous products of the earth, so
it is with those huge artificial products we call
cities. The painter will agree with you when
you say that Paris is beautiful and New York
is not, or that, compared with Nuremberg,
New York is prosaic. But, whether you as-
sert or deny the fact, he will insist that there
are many picturesque things and places in
New York, and that, under certain conditions,
it presents many broadly picturesque effects;
and he may even tell you that it is a pictur-
esque city in a queer New World fashion of
its own.
of New York, which seems to sparkle with At-
lantic salt, also stands by itself to the eye. Even
the air of Philadelphia seems duller and less
vital, and the air of Boston colder and more
raw.
The quality of the atmosphere influences
not only the aspect of sky and cloud, the in-
tensity of sunshine, and the look of long street-
perspectives, but every minor fact of color, and
of light and shadow. Put our party-colored
New York buildings in London, and we should
hardly recognize them, even while their surfaces
were still unstained by soot; the thickness of
the air would effectually disguise them. Put
the dull-looking buildings of London in New
York, and they would be transfigured to some-
thing new by our brilliant sky, our crisp lights,
and our strong, sharp shadows.
Ugly as the American tourist thinks the
smokes and fogs of London, they have a great
II. attraction for the artist, lending themselves to
ONE great influence determining the aspect the most powerful effects of chiaroscuro, and
of a city is the quality of its atmosphere. This removing the need to draw details with prosaic
quality is not alike in any two large towns un- accuracy. The fact that London has so seldom
less they are geographically and industrially been portrayed by English artists simply shows
very near akin. Doubtless the atmosphere of that there have not been many sensitive ar-
Birmingham is quite like that of Manchester. tists in England. On the other hand, the much
But the smoky air of London is not the same thinner, purer, but still slightly misty air of Paris,
as the smoky air of Chicago. The delicate, has had a thousand devotees. It subdues with-
grayish atmosphere of Paris can nowhere be out shrouding facts of local color, and softens
matched. And the clear, pure, crystalline air details into manageable shape without conceal-
ON TIlE EAST RIVER. PICTURESQUE NEW YORK i67
ing them. The transparent, almost metallic air
of New York is more difficult to deal with. It
keeps our city incomparably clean, and clean-
liness is not so artistic as it is godly. I am glad
of this chance to celebrate the cleanliness of
New York, for we are always being told how
dirty it is. Jt is certainly very dirty underfoot
in many of its streets. But the eye which is
looking for heauty or picturesqueness the
eye which is really seeing a citydoes not
care chiefly about pavements. And above our
pavements we are so extremely clean that
an artist of any previous generation would
have declared us impossihle to paint. The
modern artist, however, is not afraid of suW
jects which lack tone. He has washed the
old traditional palette, and set it anew with
fresh, cheerful colors; he has learned how to
portray the brightest sunshine; and he can
rejoice in a place where he must paint sun-
light falling on clear whites and yellows, bold
reds, bright browns, and vivid greens, no less
than one where, as in London, he can confine
himself to neutral tones, or where, as in Paris,
he can veil his whites, his pale light blues, his
soft greens, and occasional notes of a more bril-
liant kind, with a delicate gauze of airiest gray.
Indeed, the more modern in temper he is, the
more he is attracted by the toneless prob-
lem; for it is the more difficult one, the nexver
one, and, therefore, the one with which he has
the best chance to do something that was not
hackneyed long before he was born.
So our young artists are heginning to draw
A RAINY NIGHT, MADISON SQUARE i68 PICTUJ?ESQ UE NE W YORK.
and to etch and to paint New York, and here
and there they find corners and vistas of delight-
fully novel flavor. They are excited by those
frank, big irregularities of form which drive an
architect to righteous despair, and which tune
the Philistine tongue to less discriminating con-
tumely. They are stimulated by our high, clear
notes of color. And they take particular plea-
sure in seeing how finely an occasional stream of
black smoke from a chimney, or billowy rush of
white steam from an elevated train, cuts into and
contrasts with the crystal air and the azure sky,
and then dies away, leaving them unpolluted.
They do not say that New York is beautiful, but
they (10 say that it is most amusing; and this
is the current studio synonym for picturesque.
The most picturesque of all the sights that
New York offers is its general aspect when seen
at night from a boat on the water. The abrupt,
extraordinary contrasts of its sky-line are then
subdued to a gigantic mystery; its myriad,
many-colored lights spangle like those of some
supernally large casino; and from the east or
south we see one element of rare and solemn
beautythe sweep of the great bridge, defined
by starry sparks, as though a bit of the arch
of heaven had descended to brood over the
surface of the waves.
In the daylight the citys sky-line, all along
the western shore, is much too pronounced and
yet prosaic to be picturesque. But on the more
winding eastern shore there are many pic-
turesque points of view, with the bridge always
playing its part. When we get further north-
ward, the big islands in mid-stream look much
too pleasantly varied and bright to be the
abodes of poverty, illness, and crime. And
there is nothing in any land which, to the
searcher for broadly picturesque effects, can be
more satisfying than the southward outlook
from the bridge itself, when the afternoon sun
is shining on the gray-and-silver bay.
One of the most beautiful views I have ever
beheld, one far too nobly beautiful to be called
picturesque, is the viexv of Paris, seen from the
top of the towers of Notre Dame. None of
New Yorks towers can show us anything which
e(Iuals this panorama of pale gray and verdant
tones, slipping away to the encircling hills, and
cut through the middle by the shining line of
the many-bridged Seine. Yet we get a very
entertaining panorama of ruddy architectural
irregularities, spotted by the more aggressive
tall white or yellow irregularities of recent years,
from the tower on Madison Square, while the
desirable element of beauty is supplied by the
distant boundary-lines of water and further
shore. And from the top of the World tower
down-town, where the adjacent buildings arc
loftiei and the wide waters are much nearer, the
prospect is astonishingly picturesque, astonish-
ingly beautiful even, although in a wilder, cruder
way than the one from the towers of Notre
Dame.
iii.
WHEN we walk throuuh our streets we want
b
to appreciate all the picturesqueness they con-
EAST RIVER AT GRAND STREET.
ENSSSSED BY S. PICTURESQUE NEW YORK 169
tam, we must cultivate the artistic faculty of
seeing only just as much at a time as we ought
to see. We must sometimes note the general
effect without considering special features, and
sometimes contemplate a special feature to the
exclusion of its neighbors. And we must put
all rules of enjoyment learned in other towns
out of mind, and all respect for ancient archi-
tectural canons.
For example, we may walk a long way upon
Fifth Avenue without finding a truly pictur-
esque feature. But do you want to see a finely
picturesque general effect? Take an hour to-
ward sunset, stand near Thirty-fifth street.
Look to the southward, first down the slope
of the long, gentle hill, and then down the
longer level reach beyond, and let your eye
rest on the far roseate mist and the crimson
southern sky. This is more than a picturesque
sight. It is a beautiful sight, and there are so
few of its kind in New York that it ought
never to be offered to unheeding eyes.
VOL. XLV.23.
Continue your course down the avenue, and
perhaps you will be lucky enough to round the
shoulder of the Brunswick while the shadows
lie heavy on the trees in Madison Square; but
the sky is still vivid overhead, and a strong
beam of sunshine still lingers far up on Dianas
saffron tower. This too is a beautiful sight, if
you look only at the tower. But, seen from a
more southerly point, with alien buildings
around it, and a mat of foliage at its feet, the
tower is eminently picturesque even at noon-
time, still more at sunset, and especially at
night when it is wreathed with flashing lamps.
But it grows purely beautiful again in a clear
midnight, when there is no light but the stars
light, yet this suffices to bring out its pallid
grace against a sky which, being the sky of
New York, is, even at midnight, definitely
blue.
A little further to the southward still, and
you stand at the corner of Twenty-third street.
Here you will be happiest in winter, for then
ENGRAVED BY J. CLEMENT.
THE TOMBS. 170 PICTURESQUE NEW YORK
a carpet of snow may give a key-note of color
repeated in the white fronts of certain big
shops, and again in the clouds which mark
the flight of an elevated train at the end of
the vista. This is not a beautiful view, but it
is a picturesque one, and picturesque in a bold,
careless, showy way quite characteristic of
New York. For in other American towns
where architecture is as audacious and irre-
sponsible as here, there are not the same high
colors distributed in the same effective large
masses, and bathed in the same almost yet not
quite metallic air, Chicago uses more differ-
ent kinds of building-material than do we; but
even if her smoke did not subdue their tints,
she would still lack the coloristic decision of
New York; for we make a much larger use of
white and pale-yelloxv stone and brick and
terra-cotta.
Twenty-third street is a good place in which
to learn that there are two sides to many optical
questions. Our women, for instance, clothe
themselves much too gaudily outdoors if we
judge them individually by the standard of
ood taste in dress; but they do not if we
judge them collectively as an element in a
tangled street-perspective. Our elevated roads
have certainly spoiled many of our avenues;
yet they bring numerous picturesque notes into
the vistas of our cross-streets; and when we
travel by them, especially at night, they delight
our eyes with striking effects never seen until
they were built. And it is the same with our
flaunting sign-boards. Architecturally crimi-
nal, and destructive of that look of dignified
repose which may be even better in a city than
picturesqueness, they add to the accidental
contrasts which a painter of modern temper
loves.
The whole of Madison Square is picturesque
to a painter of this sort, by day and night, in
summer and winter. Or it would be if only
some one would build, on its sharp southern
corner, another tall light-colored tower to chal-
lenge Dianas across the trees. Even this same
shabby corner, as our etcher shows, is not un-
picturesque when veiled by night and a rain-
storm; and there are many other places in
New York which assume a surprisingly picto-
rial aspect under these conditions.
ELEVATED RAILROAD STATION. PICTURESQUE NEW YORK 7
But these are not our characteristic condi-
tions. They do not show our picturesqueness
as most distinctly different from that of any
other town. Our atmosphere and our light
are our chief glories, with the splendid sap-
phire sky they give, and the sumptuous masses
of white clouds they allow to brood or fly above
us. Therefore we have been wise of late years
to run so decidedly to architectural whites and
yellows. And therefore a shining spring day
is the one on which we prefer that a stranger
shall first behold us; or a snow-clad but equally
shining winter day the sort of day which
comes rarely now, as regards the snow, but, if
we may believe veracious elders, used to come
by months at a time. Then, when the sleighs
are out, and every note of color in house or
dress is keyed up to a double intensity by the
white background, and the sleigh-bells do not
ring more gaily than the brisk wind greets our
cheeks, it must be a dull eye which finds the
upper part of New York dully prosaic.
iv.
BUT it is not only up-town, in the central, re-
spectable streets, that the picturesqueness of
New York resides,not only and, in one sense,
not chiefly, although here our color-effects are
most brilliant. Picturesqueness of detail is un-
ending along the river-fronts. Even the grimy,
filthy water-streets show touches of it, and from
the water itself there unrolls a perpetually new
grouping of those many-sized hulls and tan-
gled spars and cordages which, in every cen-
tury and every maritime land, have been the
artists joy. Queer, sordid and ramshackle are
many of these waterside pictures, but often
good to paint, and still more often very good
indeed to draw.
New York has nothing, alas, to recall the
clean, stately quays which are a distinctive fea-
ture in most European seaports. But around
the Battery there is a dignified promenade, and
the prospect it offers of restless water and pro-
tean craft need not fear a rival. South street
is more respectable than most of our water-
streets, and seems distinctly picturesque to me.
But perhaps this is because, as a child, I used
to sit there in my grandfathers office and mar-
vel at the giant bowsprits which almost came
in at the window. Farther north lies Coenties
Slip, with some rare remaining bits of old-time
architecture stores whose quaint, Dutch,
bourgeois quietude is emphatically brought out
by the self-assertiveness of the big square red
tower of the Produce Exchange behind them.
Then, as we penetrate toward the center of
the down-town district, there are picturesque
glimpses of verdure, lighted up by flaming
flower-beds, at Bowling Green and near the
City Hall; and there are the varying reaches,
TWO BRIDGES ON THE HARLEM. 172 PICTURESQUE NEW YORK
now straight, now curving, now narr ow, and
now broad, of the teeming business streets.
Here is the famous slant of Wall street, made
almost tunnel-like in recent years by the height
of its reconstructed buildings. And from it we
get another of New Yorks best sightsthe
sight of Trinity Church, and of that peaceful
graveyard which looks doubly peaceful amid
this riot and roar; church and graveyard im-
pressing not only the eye but the mind as
witnesses that beauty and righteousness have
their claims no less than money-making and
architectural display.
But we cannot appreciate the picturesque-
ness which New York wears to both mind and
eye unless we go immediately from the stately
commercialism of its down-town streets to the
adjacent tenefuent-house districts. Pest-holes
to the sanitarian and the moralist, loathsome
abodes of filth and horror to the respectable
citizen, many parts of these districts gratify
the eye that seeks pictorial pleasure. I have
seen Grand street at Christmas-time when the
East-siclers had on their best clothes, and
were wandering in crowded groups along
the booth-lined pavement, and the big shops
seemed to have disgorged half their contents
outside their windows; and Grand street was
almost as picturesque as a German Ja/irmarki.
I have seen Hester street on a Friday after-
noon in May, when it swarmed so thickly with
Jews of a dozen landshucksters and buyers
inextricably mixed that there seemed no room
for another, and all were as little like Ameri-
cans as though they had never left their out-
landish homes, and not a sound in their loud
Babel was a recognizable part of civilized
speeco; and Hester street was amazingly like
those foreign ghettos which traveling Ne xv-York-
ers take such pains to visit. I have seen Mul-
berry Bend on an October day, when it was
just as full of Italians, lounging, eating, work-
ing, gossiping out of doors, with faces as beau-
tifully brown and ruddy, teeth as white, smiles
as quick, speech as voluble, jewelry as profuse,
and garments as party-colored, as though they
were at home in their Naples; and the New
York sun gilded them as radiantly as though
it had been the sun of Naples. I have seen
the Bowery at night, when it is not a Parisian
boulevard, but is something the like of which
one could not see in any Paris; and a Chinese
theater filled with Chinamen as absolutely ce-
lestial as though they had come through instead
of around the globe. And while of course I
know that there are many other odd sights to
be seen in New York, these have been enough
to prove that he who says it is unpicturesque
has never looked at it at all.
Even yet we are by no means at the end of
it. We must not forget the City Hall Park,
which, with the giant newspaper buildings
around it, would be so fair a center for the down-
town districts had not Uncle Sam seen fit to
truncate it and shut it in with his great ugly
Post-office. Still, however, it is shady, fioxvery,
and attractive, as the newsboys always know,
and as scores of tramps daily discover. And it
still holds unchanged that old City Hall, which
is perhaps the most beautiful of all our build-
ings, and which ought never to be changed, no
matter how much money and how many other
alterations it may cost us to preserve it. A
couple of miles up-town is Washington Square,
where, again, there are many tramps, but, in-
stead of the newsboys, a sprinkling of baby-
wagons and white-capped nurses; for this is the
boundary-line between very poor and crowded
and very well-to-do and roomy streets of homes
South Fifth Avenue, with its teeming French,
German, Irish, and negro population, ending
against one of its sides, and the true Fifth Av-
enue starting from another. This square shows
at its best, perhaps, when from the window of
some tall apartment-house we look over its
crowding tree-tops at the flushing morning or
evening sky. But even at the street-level its
foliage gives a double interest to the Univer-
sity building, which, architecturally, is a poor
imitation of English collegiate structures, but
- pictorially has considerable charm; to the
neighboring gray church whose qualities are of
a similar sort; to our new white Washington
Arch; and to the beautiful Italianesque cam-
panile of the new yellow-and-white Baptist
church. This arch and this tower have made
Washington Square really picturesque, espe-
cially when, standing near the one, we see the
other against a sunset sky, and its great crown-
ing cross begins to glow with electric flame
a torch of warning and of invitation alike to
the outwardly righteous dweller on Fifth Av-
enue and the openly sinful tlweller on South
Fifth Avenue.
Buildings which are pictorially, if not archi-
tecturally, very valuable can here and there
be found in every quarter of New York. The
Tombs is one of them. Jefferson Market is an-
other. Grace Church is a third, when we stand
so far off to the southward that it seems to finish
Broadway once and for all. And still another,
very different in character, is the Quaker Meet-
ing-house on Stuyvesant Square, which, with
its simple shape, big trees, and little plot of
well-tended grass, looks as though it had been
bodily transported from some small Pennsyl-
vanian town.
Picturesqueness is hardly thought of when
we go miles to the northwestward and find
the Riverside Drive. It is beauty that greets
us here, in the drive itself and the quite match-
less river-view. But both beauty and pictur PICHJRESQ UE NEW YORK 73
esqueness can be found by him who seeks
along the Harlem River, and, still further away,
along the Bronx. And if he has time to search
out here and there those scattered, fringing
spots which go by the general name of Shanty-
town, he will find perpetual picturesqueness in
their tottering, pitiful, vanishing, yet often
greenly environed, relics of bucolic days.
But even if all that ought to be said could
be said about every other quarter of Manhat-
tan, how should one describe the Central
Park? I shall not try. You, across the bridge,
who own Prospect Park, may say you have a
more beautiful pleasure-ground. But scarcely
any other people in all the world can say this,
and no one can say that he has a more pic-
turesque pleasure-ground. Out of the net-
tle difficulty Mr. Olmsted, great artist that he
is, plucked the finest flower of achievement
in this especial line. Out of the most unprom-
ising park-site that men ever chose, he made
the most picturesquely lovely park that men
ever created. Few New Yorkers know it; few
know more of it than its eastern and western
drives. But the artist is finding it out; and
whether or not he cares to bring into his can-
vas bits and glimpses of adjacent streets, he
will not soon exhaust its capabilities of picto-
rial service.
v.
PERHAPS the most characteristic trait of our
city is the quick and thorough way in which it
makes good New Yorkers of its immigrants,
foreigners or Americans, and the tenacious
way in which it retains its hold, no matter how
far off its sons may stray. The New Yorker
who lives abroad may fancy himself a cosmop-
olite; but he always remembers he is a New
Yorker, and can never even fancy himself a
simple American, much less a semi-German or
a semi-Frenchman. But the Berliner who lives
here is not a Berliner, a simple German, or even
a mere German-American. He is a New York
IN CENTRAL PARK. 74 PICTUI?ESQUE NEW YORK.
(~ernsan, and this, as a florist would say, is a
well-marked suhvarietv of the German spe-
cies. And I need not speak of the Irishman
who so instantly identifies himself with his
feeling in the sense of historic vanity, municipal
self-respect, local public spirit. But they love
their city so well that they shudder at the
thought of living anywhere else. They are
deeply hurt if a stranger is dull enough
to question where they belong. And if
they were I)orn here, they never pay
any other city the compliment of dis-
cussing how it would seem to have
been horn there, while the protid Bos-
tonian is al)t to show his pride by de-
claring he is glad he is not a native of
New York. We are all good New
Yorkers, I say, whether we were horn
on Fifth Aventie, in a far European
village at North Granite I edge in Yer-
mont or near the head waters of the
Yellowstone. And yet there is a dif
I
{I~
~- 51
51dT ~
LEN ARD NENK 95111 RI 1
new home that he instantly thinks it
ought to belong altogether to him.
Then, if one of us removes to Boston,
he or she remains, to the end of the
chapter, a New Yorker who happens
to live in Boston: but a Bostonian
\vh() comes here is transformed at
once into a New Yorker who happens
to has heen horn in Boston. Man-
hattan h for all the world, and all
the ss orld has taken possession of it
htit Manhattan retaliates hy taking
1bO~eNsiOis of every man who comes,
and maikin! him with earmarks which no one
cm mistake
This is partlx~ of cotirse, because we who
were horn here care so little where our neigh-
hors were horii Y\ e care only what they are,
and they are all ood N ew Yorkers. They are
not protidl of theii city perhaps, as Parisians are
proud of Paris bostonians of Boston. At least
it is the fashion to aa that they have no filial
IN SIIANTYrOWN.
ference hetween the merely good New Yorker
and the true, or horn, New Yorker.
ohn, who came hy rail from Buffalo three
years ago, feels in the same way about his pres-
ent home as James, who came forty years ago,
by an older path, trailing his little clouds of
glory straight from heaven. But he does not see
this present home in the same way. He sees
our actual, visible New York. But James
AN OLD LANE, 1/OLE VA//i) NEAR 94T11 SRI/El. PICTURESQUE NEW YORK 75
even if he came only thirty years ago sees
this and an earlier, vanished one as well; and
his constant perception of the vanished one
vastly increases the picturesqueness of the
actual one.
As I, a horn New Yorker, take my walks
abroad, I note a series of composite pictures,
much more striking in their contrasts, unex-
pected in their variety, than any which you,
a recently adopted New Yorker, can behold.
My mothers composites are more picturesque
still, for often she sees three hits of New York
mistily standing together on the same piece of
ground. And if my grandfather could come
hack,I am proud to say he was born in New
England, hut I am sure he thinks less of this
fact now than of the fact that he lived nearly
seventy years in New York,if he could come
back, he would behold, as a setting for his com-
posites, the open fields and gardens upon which
most of our New York has been built since he
left Connecticut; and so their picturesqueness
would he green and flowery.
There is a city in the West which, within
twenty years, has sprung up, new in body and
feathers, from the ashes of its predecessor. And
there are younger cities in the farther West
which have been born, and have grown to
architectural maturity, within the same brief
period. But the deliberate hand of man has,
during this period, done for New York almost
as much as flame did for Chicago. Old New
York has been torn down, and another city has
arisen on its site, since the days when our
streets rang to the tread of the returning ar-
mies of the Union. For a parallel to what we
have done with this city of ours, we must look
far hack to some English cathedral where the
still sturdy work of earlier generations was de-
stroyed simply that living men might rebuild
it bigger and taller and more in accordance
with their own ideas of architectural excellence.
To realize what this change means to the
true New Yorker, we need not examine those
districts within a mile of the City Hall where
transformation has been most audacious. We
need only look, I will say, at Union Square,
and only with the eyes of one who holds the
day of Lincolns assassination among her earli-
est clear memories. Union Square is a lively
place now and an amusing; and when we see
it from upper Broadway, with, over the trees,
the tall Domestic Building in the far distance,
it is not an unpicturesque place. But this is
how I behold it: Tiffanys store stands on a
certain corner, and it is commonplace and pro-
saic enough. But on this same corner I see
a pale-gray stone church with a square tower,
plausibly like that upon some English parish-
church, and with a thick mantle of ivy exactly
like an English one. There are no sky-scrap-
ing business buildings anywhere, and not a sin-
gle shop, and no horse-cars except along the
Fourth Avenue side. The tallest structure is
the Everett House, and elsewhere there are
merely rows of modest high-stoop dwellings,
with vines on their balconies and trees along
their sidewalks. The trees in the square itself
are much more numerous than you think, and
spread out much farther, so that there are only
narrow streets between them and the houses
and they are mingled with (lense thickets of
shrubs, and inclosed by a high picket-fence.
Under their shadow all of usall the boys
of the neighborhood and one or two bad little
girls as wellare playing I spy among the
bushes, digging shallow pits in the earthen paths
for our game of marbles, and drawing circles
out of which we hope, with our pet lignum-vit~
top, to drive the tops of the other fellows, per-
hapsoh, bliss splitting them in two in the
act. There are no tramps or other doleful fig-
ures on the benches; there is only a rare police-
man, who takes a fatherly interest in our sport;
and there is a stall at one corner, where a fat
Irishwoman in a red shawl dispenses pinked-
out gingersnaps of a heavenly essence which,
cannot be purchased, even by bad little girls,
within a mile of the sophisticated Union Square
of to-day.
Now, this quiet old Union Square that I see,
lying like a pretty cloud over the variegated
and noisy one that you see, makes with it a
very picturesque composite scene. And pic-
turesque, too, is the Broadway I see, looking
northward from the square; for there, mingling
with the lofty stone and iron shops, are the
ghosts of rows of little two-storied shops, with
broad wooden pl4tforms in front of them such
as still exist in small New Jersey towns. And
high up, before one of these shops (the toy-shop
of my youth, kept by a Frenchman named
Phillipoteaux, for whose sake I have always
liked to praise the painter of panoramas), stands
the ghost of a life-size figure of Santa Claus,
picturesquely promising next Christmas while
the trees are still in their budding season.
Even you, young artist, born on the Pacific
slope and now fresh from Parisian boulevards,
can see that your New York is picturesque.
But I wish that I could show you minemine,
which is not mine of my infancy or mine of
to-day, but the two together, delightfully, in-
extricably, mysteriously, perpetually mixed.
AL. G. Van Rensselaer.DRAWN DV FRANCIS VINCENT DR MOND
ENGRAVED BY H. DAVIDRRN.MADONNA.
THE sloping street ran down a little hill
And touched the tide;
The clustered town was lying warm and still
By the waterside.
I wandered up amid the noonday heat
Through humble doors,
Where leafy shadow lay on path and seat
And open floors.
A tiny town it was of yellow walls
For toiling folk,
Where river boom and hurrying engine-calls
The silence broke.
But like a vision on the narrow way,
Divinely sweet,
Within the mothers arms a baby lay
Beside the street.
T was under shadow of the maple boughs
She sat at rest,
A lowly mother by her simple house,
Her babe at breast;
A slender matron of a score of years,
With soft black eyes;
Full of delights that trembled into fears
Young-mother wise.
Bending, she gazed upon the little head,
Nor heard a sound;
Her lips, drawn up to bless, were tender red
And kissing-round.
But fainter than her cheeks autumnal rose,
A pale sweet glow
Lay round her, as if wings in white repose
Guarded her so.
Most like it was the magic color made
By some old brush:
A halo like a light within a shade,
A holy hush!
And I what though the steaming mills awoke
The heated air?
What though the rattling engine through the smoke
Made echo there ?
I crossed the barrier years and won the land
Of tenderest art,
And knew the golden masters hand to hand
And heart to heart.
Harrison S. Morris.
VOL. XLV.24. 77

Harrison S. MorrisMorris, Harrison S.Madonna177-178

MADONNA.
THE sloping street ran down a little hill
And touched the tide;
The clustered town was lying warm and still
By the waterside.
I wandered up amid the noonday heat
Through humble doors,
Where leafy shadow lay on path and seat
And open floors.
A tiny town it was of yellow walls
For toiling folk,
Where river boom and hurrying engine-calls
The silence broke.
But like a vision on the narrow way,
Divinely sweet,
Within the mothers arms a baby lay
Beside the street.
T was under shadow of the maple boughs
She sat at rest,
A lowly mother by her simple house,
Her babe at breast;
A slender matron of a score of years,
With soft black eyes;
Full of delights that trembled into fears
Young-mother wise.
Bending, she gazed upon the little head,
Nor heard a sound;
Her lips, drawn up to bless, were tender red
And kissing-round.
But fainter than her cheeks autumnal rose,
A pale sweet glow
Lay round her, as if wings in white repose
Guarded her so.
Most like it was the magic color made
By some old brush:
A halo like a light within a shade,
A holy hush!
And I what though the steaming mills awoke
The heated air?
What though the rattling engine through the smoke
Made echo there ?
I crossed the barrier years and won the land
Of tenderest art,
And knew the golden masters hand to hand
And heart to heart.
Harrison S. Morris.
VOL. XLV.24. 77MY COUSIN FANNY.
By the Author of Marse Chan, Meh Lady, etc.
RISTMAS always
up to me my
cousin Fanny; I sup-
was so foolish
pose becau~e she al-
about Christmas.
My cousin Fanny
was an old maid; in-
deed, to follow St.
Pauls turn of phrase,
she was an old maid of the old maids. No one
who saw her a moment could have doubted it.
Old maids are a peculiar folk. They have from
most people a feeling rather akin to pity a
hard heritage. They very often have this feel-
ing from the young. This must be the hardest
part of allto see around them friends, each
a happy mother of children, little ones re-
sponding to affection with the sweet caresses
of childhood, while any advances that they,
their aunt or cousin, may make are met with in-
difference or condescension. My cousin Fanny
was no exception. She was as proud as Lu-
cifer; yet she went through life the part
that I knew of bearing the pity of the great
majority of the people who knew her. This
seemed to be quite natural.
She lived at an old place called Wood-
side, which had been in the family for a great
many years; indeed, eversince before the Rev-
olution. The neighborhood dated back to the
times of the colony, and Woodside was one
of the old places. My cousin Fannys grand-
mother had stood in the door of her chamber
with her large scissors in her hand, and defied
Tarletons red-coated troopers to touch the
basket of old communion-plate which she had
hung on her arm.
The house was a large brick edifice, with a
pyramidal roof, covered with moss, small win-
dows, porticos with pillars somewhat out of
repair, a big, high hall, and a staircase wide
enough to drive up it a gig if it could have
turned the corners. A grove of great forest
oaks and poplars densely shaded it, and made
it look rather gloomy, and the garden, with
the old graveyard covered with periwinkle ~t
one end, was almost in front, while the side of
the wood a primeval forest, from which the
place took its name came up so close as to
form a strong, dark background. During the
war the place, like most others in that neigh-
borhood, suffered greatly, and only a sudden
exhibition of spirit on Cousin Fannys part
saved it from a worse fate. After the war it
went down; the fields were poor, and grew up
in briers and sassafras, and the house was too
large and out of repair to keep from decay, the
ownership of it being divided between Cousin
Fanny and other members of the family. Cousin
Fanny had no means whatever, so that it soon
was in a bad condition. The rest of the family,
as they grew up, went off, compelled by neces-
sity to seek some means of livelihood, and would
have taken Cousin Fanny too if she would have
gone; but she would not go. They did all they
could for her, but she preferred to hang around
the old place, and to do what she could with her
mammy, and old Stephen, her mammys
husband, who alone remained in the quarters.
She lived in a part of the house, locking up the
rest, and from time to time visited among her
friends and relatives, who always received her
hospitably. She had an old piece of a mare
(which I think she had bought from S~phen),
with one eye, three legs, and no mane or tail
to speak of, and on which she lavished, without
the least perceptible result, care enough to have
kept a stable in condition. In a freak of hu-
mor she named this animal Fashion, after
a noted racer of the old times, which had been
raised in the county, and had beaten the famous
Boston in a great race. She always spoke of
Fash with a tone of real tenderness in her
voice, and looked after her, and discussed her
ailments, which were always numerous, as if
she had been a delicate child. Mounted on
this beast, with her bags and bundles, and
shawls and umbrella, and a long stick or pole,
she used occasionally to make the tour of
the neighborhood, and was always really wel-
comed; because, notwithstanding the trouble
she gave, she always stirred things up. As was
said once, you could no more have remained
dull where she was than you could have dozed
with a chinkapin burr down your back. Her
retort was that a chinkapin burr might be
used to rouse people from a lethargy (she had
an old maids tongue). By the younger mem-
bers of the family she was always welcomed, be-
cause she furnished so much fun. She nearly
always ktched some little thing to her host,
not her hostess, a fowl, or a pat of butter
from her one old cow, or something of the kind,
because, she said, Abigail had established the
precedent, and she was a woman of good un
178

Thomas Nelson PagePage, Thomas NelsonMy Cousin Fanny178-188

MY COUSIN FANNY.
By the Author of Marse Chan, Meh Lady, etc.
RISTMAS always
up to me my
cousin Fanny; I sup-
was so foolish
pose becau~e she al-
about Christmas.
My cousin Fanny
was an old maid; in-
deed, to follow St.
Pauls turn of phrase,
she was an old maid of the old maids. No one
who saw her a moment could have doubted it.
Old maids are a peculiar folk. They have from
most people a feeling rather akin to pity a
hard heritage. They very often have this feel-
ing from the young. This must be the hardest
part of allto see around them friends, each
a happy mother of children, little ones re-
sponding to affection with the sweet caresses
of childhood, while any advances that they,
their aunt or cousin, may make are met with in-
difference or condescension. My cousin Fanny
was no exception. She was as proud as Lu-
cifer; yet she went through life the part
that I knew of bearing the pity of the great
majority of the people who knew her. This
seemed to be quite natural.
She lived at an old place called Wood-
side, which had been in the family for a great
many years; indeed, eversince before the Rev-
olution. The neighborhood dated back to the
times of the colony, and Woodside was one
of the old places. My cousin Fannys grand-
mother had stood in the door of her chamber
with her large scissors in her hand, and defied
Tarletons red-coated troopers to touch the
basket of old communion-plate which she had
hung on her arm.
The house was a large brick edifice, with a
pyramidal roof, covered with moss, small win-
dows, porticos with pillars somewhat out of
repair, a big, high hall, and a staircase wide
enough to drive up it a gig if it could have
turned the corners. A grove of great forest
oaks and poplars densely shaded it, and made
it look rather gloomy, and the garden, with
the old graveyard covered with periwinkle ~t
one end, was almost in front, while the side of
the wood a primeval forest, from which the
place took its name came up so close as to
form a strong, dark background. During the
war the place, like most others in that neigh-
borhood, suffered greatly, and only a sudden
exhibition of spirit on Cousin Fannys part
saved it from a worse fate. After the war it
went down; the fields were poor, and grew up
in briers and sassafras, and the house was too
large and out of repair to keep from decay, the
ownership of it being divided between Cousin
Fanny and other members of the family. Cousin
Fanny had no means whatever, so that it soon
was in a bad condition. The rest of the family,
as they grew up, went off, compelled by neces-
sity to seek some means of livelihood, and would
have taken Cousin Fanny too if she would have
gone; but she would not go. They did all they
could for her, but she preferred to hang around
the old place, and to do what she could with her
mammy, and old Stephen, her mammys
husband, who alone remained in the quarters.
She lived in a part of the house, locking up the
rest, and from time to time visited among her
friends and relatives, who always received her
hospitably. She had an old piece of a mare
(which I think she had bought from S~phen),
with one eye, three legs, and no mane or tail
to speak of, and on which she lavished, without
the least perceptible result, care enough to have
kept a stable in condition. In a freak of hu-
mor she named this animal Fashion, after
a noted racer of the old times, which had been
raised in the county, and had beaten the famous
Boston in a great race. She always spoke of
Fash with a tone of real tenderness in her
voice, and looked after her, and discussed her
ailments, which were always numerous, as if
she had been a delicate child. Mounted on
this beast, with her bags and bundles, and
shawls and umbrella, and a long stick or pole,
she used occasionally to make the tour of
the neighborhood, and was always really wel-
comed; because, notwithstanding the trouble
she gave, she always stirred things up. As was
said once, you could no more have remained
dull where she was than you could have dozed
with a chinkapin burr down your back. Her
retort was that a chinkapin burr might be
used to rouse people from a lethargy (she had
an old maids tongue). By the younger mem-
bers of the family she was always welcomed, be-
cause she furnished so much fun. She nearly
always ktched some little thing to her host,
not her hostess, a fowl, or a pat of butter
from her one old cow, or something of the kind,
because, she said, Abigail had established the
precedent, and she was a woman of good un
178derstanding she understood that feeding
and flattery were the way to win men. She
would sometimes have a chicken in a basket
hung on the off pommel of her old saddle,
because at times she fancied she could not eat
anything but chicken soup, and she did not
wish to give trouble. She used to give trouble
enough; for it generally turned out that she
had heard some one was sick in the neighbor-
hood, and she wanted the soup carried to her.
I remember how mad Joe got because she made
him go with her to carry a bucket of soup to
old Mrs. Ronquist.
Cousin Fanny had the marks of an old maid.
She was thin (scrawny we used to call her,
though I remember now she was quite erect
until she grew feeble); her features were sharp;
her nose was inclined to be a little red (it was
very straight); her hair was brown; and her
eyes, which were dark, were weak, so that she
had often to wear a green shade. She used to
say herself that they were bad eyes. They
had been so ever since the time when she was
a young girl, and there had been a very bad
attack of scarlet fever at her home, and she had
caught it. I think she caught a bad cold with
it,sitting up nursing some of the younger
children, perhaps,and it had settled in her
eyes. She was always very liable to cold.
I believe she had a lover then or about that
time; but her mother had died not long before,
and she had some notion of duty to the chil-
dren, and so discarded him. Of course, as every
one said, she d much better have married
him. I do not suppose he ever could have
addressed her. She never would admit that he
did, which did not look much like it. I think
we used to speak of her as sore-eyed; I know
she was once spoken of in my presence as a
sore-eyed old maid I have forgotten who
said it. Yet I can now recall occasions when her
eyes, being better, appeared unusually soft,
and, had she notbeenan old maid, would some-
times have been beautiful as, for instance,
occasionally, when she was playing at the piano
in the evenings before the candles were lighted.
I recollect particularly once when she was sing-
ing an old French love-song. Another time was
when on a certain occasion some one was talk-
ing about marriages and the reasons which led
to or prevented them. She sat quite still and
silent, looking out of the window, with her thin
hands resting in her lap. Her head was turned
away from most of the people, but I was sitting
where I could see her, and the light of the even-
ing sky was on her face. It made her look very
soft. She lifted up her eyes, and looked far off
toward the horizon. I remember it recalled to
me, young as I was, the speech I had heard
some one once make when I was a little boy,
and which I had thought so ridiculous, that
I
when she was young, before she caught thaf
cold, she was almost beautiful. There was
an expression on her face that made me think
she ought always to sit looking out of the win-
dow at the evening sky. I believe she had
brought me some apples that day when she
came, and that made me feel kindly toward
her. The light on her hair gave it a reddish
look, quite auburn. Presently she withdrew her
eyes from the sky, and let them fall into her
lap with a sort of long, sighing breath, and
slowly interlaced her fingers. The next second
some one~jocularly fired this question at her:
Well, Cousin Fanny, give us your views,
and her expression changed back to that which
she ordinarily wore.
Oh, my views, like other peoples, vary
from my practice, she said. It is not views,
but experiences, which are valuable in life.
When I shall have been married twice I will
tell you.
While there s life there s hope, eh ? haz-
arded some one; for teasing an old maid like
her, in any way, was held perfectly legitimate.
Yes, indeed, and she left the room, smiling,
and went up-stairs.
This was one of the occasions when her eyes
looked well. There were others that I remem-
ber, as sometimes when she was in church;
sometimes when she was playing with little
children; and now and then when, as on that
evening, she xvas sitting still, gazing out of the
window. But usually her eyes were weak, and
she wore the green shade which gave her face a
peculiar pallor, making her look old, and giving
her a pained, invalid expression.
Her dress was one of her peculiarities. Per-
haps it was because she made her clothes herself,
without being able to see very well. I suppose
she did not have much to dress on. I know she
used to turn her dresses, and change them
around several times. When she had any money
she used to squander it, buying dresses for
Scroggss girls or for some one else. She was
always scrupulously neat, being quite old-maid-
ish. She said that cleanliness was next to god-
liness in a man, and in a woman it was on a
par with it. I remember once seeing a picture
of her as a young girl, as young as Kitty, dressed
in a soft white dress, with her hair down over
her ears, and some flowers in her dress (that
is, it was said to be she; but I did notbelieve it).
To be sure, the flowers looked like it. She al-
ways would stick flowers or leaves in her
dress, which was thought quite ridiculous. The
idea of associating flowers with an old maid!
It was as hard as believing she ever was the
young girl. It was not, however, her dress, old
and often queer and ill-made as it used to be,
that was the chief grievance against her. There
was a much stronger ground of opposition; she
MY COUSIN FANNYMY COUSIN FANNY
ad nerves! The word used to be strung out
in pronouncing it, with a curve of the lips, as
ner-erves. I dont remember that she herself
ever mentioned them; that was the exasperat-
ing part of it. She would never say a word; she
would just closeherthinlipstight,andw~ar a sort
of ill look, as if she were in actualpain. She used
to go up-stairs, and shut the door and windows
tight, and go to bed, and have mustard-plasters
on her temples and the back of her neck; and
when she came down, after a day or two, she
would have bright red spots burnt on her tem-
ples and neck, and would look ill. Of course
it was very hard not to be exasperated at this.
Then she would creep about as if merely step-
ping jarred her; would put on a heavy blue veil,
and wrap her head up in a shawl, and feel along
by the chairs till she got to a seat, and drop
back in it, gasping. Why, I have even seen her
sit in the room, all swathed up, and with an old
parasol over her head to keep out the light, or
some such nonsense, as we used to think. It
was too ridiculous to us, and we boys used to
walk heavily and stumble over chairs, ac-
cidentally, of course,just to make her jump.
Sometimes she would even start up and cry out.
We had the incontestable proof that it was all
put on; for if you began to talk to her, and
got her interested, she would forget all about
her ailments, and would run on and talk and,
laugh for an hour, until she suddenly remem-
bered, and sank back again in her shawls and
pains.
She knew a great deal. In fact, I recall now
that she seemed to know more than any woman
I have ever been thrown in with, and if she
had not been an old ni~aid, I am bound to ad-
mit that her conversation would have been the
mostentertaining I ever knew. She livedin asort
of atmosphere ofromance and literature; the old
writers and their characters were as real to her
as we were, and she used to talk about them to
us whenever we would let her. Of course, when
it came from an old maid, it made a difference.
She was not only easily the best French scholar
in our region, where the ladies all knew more
or less of French, but she was an excellent Latin
scholar, which was much less common. I have
often lain down before the fire when I was learn-
ing my Latin lesson, and read to her, line by
line, C~esar or Ovid or Cicero, as the book
might be, and had her render it into English
as fast as I read. Indeed, I have even seen
Horace read to her as she sat in the old rock-
ing-chair after one of her headaches, with her
eyes bandaged, and her head swathed in veils
and shawls, and she would turn it into not only
proper English, but English with a glow and
color and rhythm that gave the very life of
the odes. This was an exercise we boys all
liked and often engaged in, Frank, and Joe,
and Doug, and I, and even old Blinky, for,
as she used to admit herse1f~ she was always
worrying us to read to her (I believe I read
all of Scotts novels to her). Of course this
translation helped us as well as gratified her.
I do not remember that she was ever too
unwell to help us in this way except when she
was actually in bed. She was very fond of us
boys, and was always ready to take our side
and to further our plans in any way whatever.
We would get herto steal off with us, and trans-
late our Latin for us by the fire. This, of course,
made us rather fond of her. She was so much
inclined to take our part and to help us that
I remember it used to be said of her as a sort
of reproach, Cousin Fanny always sides with
the boys. She used to say it was because she
knew how worthless women were. She would
say this sort of thing herself, but she was very
touchy about women, and never would allow
any one else to say anything about them. She
had an old maids temper. I remember that she
took Doug up short once for talking about old
maids. She said that for her part she did not
mind it the least bit; but she would not allow
him to speak so of a large class of her sex which
contained some of the best women in the world;
that many of them performed work, and made
sacrifices, that the rest of the world knew no-
thing about. She said the true word for them was
the old Saxon term spinster; that it proved
that they performed the work of the house, and
that it was a term of honor of which she was
proud. She said that Christ had humbled him-
self to be born of a Virgin, and that every wo-
man had this honor to sustain. Of course such
lectures as that made us call her an old maid all
the more. Still, I dont think that being mis-
chievous or teasing her made any difference
with her. Frank used to worry her more than
any one else, even than Joe, and I am sure
she liked him best of all. That may perhaps
have been b~ecause he was the best looking
of us. She said once that he reminded her of
some one she used to know a long time before,
when she was young. That must have been
a long time before, indeed. He used to tease
the life out of her.
She was extraordinarily credulous would
believe anything on earth any one told her,
because, although she had plenty of humor,
she herself never would deviate from the ab-
solute truth a moment even in jest. I do not
think she would have told an untruth to save
her life. Well, of course we used to play on
her to tease her. Frank would tell her the
most unbelievable and impossible lies, such as
that he thought he saw a mouse yesterday on
the back of the sofa she was lying on (this
would make her bounce up like a ball), or that
he believed he heardhe was not surethat MY COUSIN FANNY i8x
Mr. Scroggs (the man who had rented her old
home) had cut down all the old trees in the
yard, and pulled down the house because he
wanted the bricks to make brick ovens. This
would worry her excessively (she loved every
brick in the old house, and often said she would
rather live in the kitchen there than in a pal-
ace anywhere else), and she would get into
such a state of depression, that Frank would
finally have to tell her that he was just fool-
ing her.
She used to make him do a good deal of
waiting on her in return, and he was the one she
used to get to dress old Fashions back when
it was raw, and to put drops in her eyes. He
got quite expert at it. She said it was a penalty
for his worrying her so.
She was the great musician of the connec-
tion. This is in itself no mean praise; for it
was the fashion for every musical gift among
the girls to be cultivated, and every girl played
or sang more or less, some of them very well.
But Cousin Fanny was not only this. She had a
way of playing that used to make the old piano
sound different from itself; and her voice was
almost the sweetest I ever heard except one or
two on the stage. It was particularly sweet in
the evenings, when she sat down at the piano
and played. She would not always do it; she
either felt not in the mood, or not sympa-
thetic, or some such thing. None of the oth-
ers were that way; the rest could play just as
well in the glare of day as in the twilight, and
before one person as another; it was, we all
knew, just one of Cousin Fannys old-maid
crochets. When she sat down at the piano
and played, her fussiness was all forgotten; her
first notes used to be recognized through the
house, and the people used to stop what they
were doing, and come in. Even the children
would leave off playing, and come straggling
in, tiptoeing as they crossed the floor. Some
of the other performers used to play a great
deal louder, but we never tiptoed when they
played. Cousin Fanny would sit at the piano
looking either up or right straight ahead of
her, or often with her eyes closed (sh2 never
looked at the keys), and the sound used to rise
from under her long, thin fingers, sometimes
rushing and pouring forth like a deep roar,
sometimes ringing out clear like a band of bu-
gles, making the hair move on the head and
giving strange tinglings down the back. Then
we boys wanted to go forth in the world on fiery,
black chargers, like the olden knights, and fight
giants and rescue beautiful ladies and poor
women. Then again, with her eyes shut, the
sound would almost die away, and her fingers
would move softly and lingeringly as if they
loved the touch of the keys, and hated to leave
them; and the sound would come from away
far oft and everything would grow quiet and
subdued, and the perfume of the roses out of
doors would steal in on the air, and the soft
breezes would stir the trees, and we were all
in love, and wanted to see somebody that we
did nt ste. And Cousin Fanny was not her-
self any longer, but we imagined some one else
was there. Sometimes she suddenly began to
sing (she sang old songs, English or French);
her voice might be weak (j~ all depended on her
whims; s/ic said, on he~iealth), in that case
she always stopped and left the piano; or it
might be in condition. When it was, it was as
velvety and mellow as a bell far oW and the
old ballads and chansons used to fill the twi-
light. We used even to forget then that she
was an old maid. Now and then she sang
songs that no one else had ever heard. They
were her own; she had composed both the
words and the air. At other times she sang the
songs of others to her own airs. I remember
the first time I ever heard of Tennyson was
when, one evening in the twilight, she sang his
echo song from The Princess. The air was
her own, and in the chorus you heard perfectly
the notes of the bugle, and the echoes answer-
ing, Dying, dying, dying. Boy as I was, I
was entranced, and she answered my enthu-
siasin by turning and repeating the poem. I
have often thought since how musical her voice
was as she repeated,
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
She had a peculiarly sentimental tempera-
ment. As I look back at it all now, she was
much given to dwelling upon old-time poems
and romances, which we thought very ridic-
ulous in any one, especially in a spinster of
forty odd. She would stop and talk about the
branch of a tree with the leaves all turning red
or yellow .or purple in the common way in
which, as every one knows, leaves always turn
in the fall, or even about a tangle of briers, scar-
let with frost, in a corner of an old worm-fence,
keeping us waiting while she fooled around
a brier patch with old Blinky, who would
just as lief have been in one place as another,
so ft was out of doors; and even when she
reached the house she would still carry on
about it, worrying us by telling over again just
how the boughs and leaves looked massed
against the old gray fence, which she could do
till you could see them precisely as they were.
She was very aggravating in this way. Some-
times she would even take a pencil or pen and
a sheet of paper for old Blinky, and reproduce
it. She could not draw, of course, for she was
not a painter; all she could do was to make any-
thing look almost just like it was. 182 MY COUSIN FANNY
There was one thing about her which ex-
cited much talk; I suppose it was only a piece
of old-maidism. Of course she was religious.
She was really very good. She was considered
very high church. I do not think from my
recollection of her that she really wfs, or, in-
deed, that she could have been; but she used
to talk that way, and it was said that she was.
In fact, it used to be whispered that she was
in danger of becoming a Catholic. I believe
she had an aunt tha~vas one, and she had vis-
ited several times in Norfolk and Baltimore,
where it was said there were a good many. I
remember she used to defend them, and say
she knew a great many very devout ones. And
she admitted that she sometimes went to the
Catholic church, and found it devotional; the
choral service, she said, satisfied something in
her soul. It happened to be in the evening that
she was talking about this. She sat down at the
piano, and played some of the Gregorian chants
she had heard, and it had a soothing influence
on every one. Even Joe, the fidgetiest of all,
sat quite still through it. She said that some
one had said it was the music that the angels
sing in heaven around the great white throne,
and there was no other sacred music like it.
But she played another thing that evening
which she said was worthy to be played with it.
It had some chords in it that I remembered
long afterward. Years afterward I heard it
played the same way in the twilight by one who
is a blessed saint in heaven, and may be play-
ing it there now. It was from Chopin. She even
said that evening, under the impulse of her en-
thusiasm, that she did not see, excePt that it
might be abused, why the crucifix should not
be retained by all Christian churches, as it
enabled some persons not gifted with strong
imaginations to have a more vivid realization
of the crucified Saviour. This, of course, was
going too far, and it created considerable ex-
citement in the family, and led to some very
serious talk being given her, in which the
second commandment figured largely. It was
considered as carrying old-maidism to an ex-
treme length. For some time afterward she
was rather discountenanced. In reality, I think
what some said was true: it was simply that
she was emotional, as old maids are apt to be.
She once said that many women have the nuns
instinct largely developed, and sigh for the
peace of the cloister.
She seemed to be very fond of artists. She
had the queerest tastes, and had, or had had
when she was young, one or two friends who,
I believe, claimed to be something of that kind;
she used to talk about them to old Blinky.
But it seemed to us from what she said that
artists never did any work; just spent their time
lounging around, doing nothing, and daubing
paint on their canvas with brushes like a painter,
or chiseling and chopping rocks like a mason.
One of these friends of hers was a young man
from Norfolk who had made a good many
things. He was killed or died in the war; so
he had not been quite ruined; was worth some-
thing anyhow as a soldier. One of his things
was a Psyche, and Cousin Fanny used to talk
a good deal about it; she said it was fine, was
a work of genius. She had even written some
verses about it. She repeated them to me once,
and I wrote them down. Here they are:
LINES TO GALTS PsycHE.
Well art thou called the soul,
For as I gaze on thee,
My spirit, past control,
Springs up in ecstasy.
Thou canst not be dead stone;
For oer thy lovely face,
Softer than musics tone,
I see the spirits grace.
The wild reolian lyre
Is but a silken string,
Till summer winds inspire,
And softest music bring.
Psyche, thou wast but stone
Till his inspiring came:
The sculptors hand alone,
Made not that soul-touched frame.
They have lain by me for years, and are pretty
good for an old maid. I think, however, she
was young when she addressed them to the
soul-touched work of the young sculptor,
who laid his genius and everything at Virgi-
nias feet. They were friends, I believe, when
she was a girl, before she caught that cold, and
her eyes got bad.
Among her eccentricities was her absurd
cowardice. She was afraid of cows, afraid of
horses, afraki even of sheep. And bugs, and
anything that crawled, used to give her a fit.
If we drove her anywhere, and the horses cut
up the least bit, she would jump out and walk,
even in the mud; and I remember once seeing
her cross the yard, where a young cow that
had a calf asleep in the weeds, over in a corner
beyond her, started toward it at a little trot with
a whimper of motherly solicitude. Cousin
Fanny took it into her head that the cow was
coming at her, and just screamed, and sat down
flat on the ground, carrying on as if she were a
baby. Of course we boys used to tease her,
and tell her the cows were coming after her.
You could not help teasing an old maid like
that.
I do not see how she managed to do what
she did when the enemy got to Woodside in
the war. That was quite remarkable, consid MY CO C/SIN FANNY 183
ering what a coward she was. During 1864
the Yankees on a raid got to her house one
evening in the ~summer. As it happened, a
young soldier, one of her cousins (she had no
end of cousins), had got a leave of absence,
and had come there sick with fever just the day
before (the house was always a sort of hospi-
tal). He was in the boys room in bed when
the Yankees arrived, and they were all around
the house before she knew it. She went down-
stairs to meet them. They had been informed
by one of the negroes that Cousin Charlie was
there, and they told her that they wanted him.
She told them they could not get him. They
asked her, Why? Is he not there? (I
heard her tell of it once.) She said:
You know, I thought when I told them
they could not get him that they would go
away, but when they asked me if he was not
there, of course I could not tell them a story;
so I said I declined to answer impertinent
questions. You know poor Charlie was at that
moment lying curled up under the bed in the
boys room with a roll of carpet a foot thick
around him, and it was as hot as an oven.
Well, they insisted on going through the house,
and I let them go all through the lower stories;
but when they started up the staircase I was
ready for them. I had always kept, you know,
one of papas old horse-pistols as a protection.
Of course it was not loaded. I would not have
had it loaded for anything in the world. I
always kept it safely locked up, and I was
dreadfully afraid of it even then. But you have
no idea wl~at a moral support it gave me, and
I used to unlock the drawer every afternoon
to see that it still was there all right, and then
lock it again, and put the key away carefully.
Well, as it happened, I had just been looking
at it which I called inspecting my garrison.
I used to feel just like Lady Margaret in Tillie-
ludlam Castle. Well, I had just been looking
at it that afternoon when I heard the Yankees
were coming, and by a sudden inspiration I
cannot tell for my life how I did itI seized
the pistol, and hid it under my apron. I held
on to it with both hands, I was so afraid of it,
and all the time those wretches were going
through the rooms down-stairs I was quaking
with terror. But when they started up the stairs
I had a new feeling. I knew they were bound to
get poor Charlie if he had not melted and run
away,no, he would never have run away; I
mean evaporated, and I suddenly ran up the
stairway a few steps before them, and, hauling
out my big pistol, pointed it at them, and told
them that if they came one step higher I would
certainly pull the trigger. I could not say I
would shoot, for it was not loaded. Well, do
you know, they stopped! They stopped dead
still. I declare I was so afraid the old pistol
would go off, though, of course, I knew it was
notloaded, that I was just quaking. But as soon
as they stopped I began to attack. I remem-
bered my old grandmother and her scissors,
and, like General Jackson, I followed up my
advantage. I descended the steps, brandishing
my pistol with both hands, and abusing them
with all my might. I was so afraid they might
ask if it was loaded. But they really thought
I would shoot them (you know men have not
liked to be slain by a woman since the time
of Abimelech), and they actually ran down the
steps, with me after them, and I got them all
out of the house. Then I locked the door
and barred it, and ran up-stairs and had such
a cry over Charlie. [That was like an old
maid.] Afterward they were going to burn the
house, but I got hold of their colonel, who
was not there at first, and made him really
ashamed of himself; for I told him we were
nothing but a lot of poor, defenseless women
and a sick boy. He said he thought I was
right well defended, as I had held a company
at bay. He finally promised that if I would
give him some music he would not go up-stairs.
So I paid that for my ransom, and a bitter
ransom it was too, I can tell you, singing for
a Yankee! But I gave him a dose of Con-
federate songs, I promise you. He asked me
to sing the Star-spangled Banner; but I told
him I would not do it if he burnt the house
down with me in it. Then he asked me to sing
Home, sweet Home, and I did that, and he
actually had tears in his eyesthe hypocrite!
He had very fine eyes too. I think I did sing
it well, though. I cried a little myself, think-
ing of the old house being so nearly burnt.
There was a young doctor there, a surgeon, a
reallynice-looking fellow for aYankee; I made
him feel ashamed of himself, I tell you. I told
him I had no doubt he had a good mother and
sister up at home, and to think of his coming
and warring on po~r women. And they really
placed a guard over the house for me while
they were there.
This she actually did. With her old empty
horse-pistol she cleared the house of the mob,
and then vowed that if they burned the house
she would burn up in it, and finally saved it
by singing Home, sweet Home for the colo-
nel. She could not have done much better even
if she had not been an old maid.
I did not see much of her after I grew up.
I moved away from the old county. Most
others did the same. It had been desolated by
the war, and got poorer and poorer. With an old
maids usual crankiness and inability to adapt
herself to the order of things, Cousin Fanny
remained behind. She refused to come away;
said, I believe, she had to look after the old
place, mammy, and Fash, or some such non- 184 MY COUSIN FANNY
sense. I think she had some idea that the church
would go down, or that the poor people around
would miss her, or something equally unpracti-
cal. Anyhow, she stayed behind, and lived for
quite a while the last of her connection in the
county. Of course all did the best they could
for her, and had she gone to live around with
her relatives, as theywished herto do, theywould
have borne with her and supported her, though
it would have been righthard on them. But she
said no; that a single woman ought never to
live in any house but her fathers or her own;
and we could not do anything with her. She
was so proud she would not take money as a
gift from any one, not even from her nearest
relatives.
Her health got rather poornot unnatur-
ally, considering the way she divided her time
between doctoring herself and fussing after sick
people in all sorts of weather. With the fanci-
fulness of her kind, she finally took it into her
head that she must consult a doctor in New York
for her ailments. Of course no one but an old
maid would have done this; the home doctors
were good enough for every one else. Nothing
would do, however, but she must go to New
York; so, against the advice of every one, she
wrote to a cousin who was living there to meet
her, and with her old wraps, and cap, and bags,
and bundles, and old stick, and umbrella, she~
started. The lady met her; that is, went to meet
her, but failed to find her at the station, and,
supposing that she had not come, or had taken
some other railroad, which she was likely to do,
returned home, to find her in bed, with her
things piled up on the floor. Some gentle-
man had come across her in Washington, hold-
ing the right train while she insisted on taking
the Pittsburg route, and had taken compassion
on her, and not only escorted her to New York,
but had taken her and all her parcels, and
brought her to her destination, where she had
at once retired.
He was a most charming man, my dear,
she said to her cousin, who told me of it after-
ward, in narrating her eccentricities, and, to
think of it, I dont believe I had looked in a glass
all day, and when I got here, my cap had some-
how got twisted around and was perched right
over my left ear, making me look a perfect fright.
He told me his name, but I have forgotten it,
of course. But he was such a gentleman, and
to think of his being a Yankee! I told him I
hated all Yankees, and he just laughed, and did
not mind my stick, nor old umbrella, nor bun-
dles a bit. You d have thought my old cap
was a Parisian bonnet. I will not believe he
was a Yankee.~~
Well, she went to see the doctor, the most
celebrated in New Yorkat the infirmary, of
course, for she was too poor to go to his office;
one consultation would have taken every cent
she had. Her cousin went with her, and told
me of it. She said that when she came down-
stairs to go, she never saw such a sight. On
her head she had her blue cap, and her green
shade, and her veil, and her shawl; and she
had the old umbrella and long stick, which
she had brought from the country, and a large
pillow under her arm, because she knew she
was going to faint. So they started out, but
it was a slow procession. The noise and bustle
of the street dazed her, her cousin fancied, and
every now and then she would clutch her com-
panion and declare she must go back or she
should faint. At every street-crossing she in-
sisted upon having a policeman to help her
over, or, in default of that, she would stop some
man and ask him to escort her across, which,
of course, he would do, thinking her crazy.
Finally they reached the infirmary, where
there were already a large number of patients,
and many more came in afterward. Here she
shortly established an acquaintance with sev-
eral strangers. She had to wait an hour or more
for her turn, and then insisted that several who
had come in after her should go in before her,
because she said the poor things looked so tired.
This would have gone on indefinitely, her cousin
said, if she had not finally dragged her into
the doctors room. There the first thing that
she did was to insist that she must lie down,
she was so faint, and her pillow was brought
into requisition. The doctor humored her, and
waited on her. Her friend started to tell him
about her, but the doctor said, I prefer to have
her tell me herself. She presently began to
tell, the doctor sitting quietly by listening, and
seeming to be much interested. He gave her
some prescription, and told her to come again
next day; and when she went he sent for her
ahead of her turn, and after that made her
come to his office at his private house, instead
of to the infirmary as at first. He turned out
to be the surgeon who had been at her house
with the Yankees during the war. He was very
kind to her. I suppose he had never seen any
one like her. She used to go every day, and
soon dispensed with her friends escort, finding
no difficultyin getting about. Indeed, she came
to be known on the streets she passed through,
and on the cars she traveled by, and people
guided her. Several times as she was taking
the wrong car men stopped her, and said to
her, Madam, yours is the red car. She said,
sure enough it was, but she never could divine
how they knew. She addressed the conductors
as My dear sir, and made them help her not
only ofg but quite to the sidewalk, when she
thanked them, and said Good-by, as if she
had been at home. She said she did this on
principle, for it was such a good thing to teach
Aiijv eousi;t Fa;iny was ait old maid; in-
deed, to fhiow SI. Pal/is I//rn of p//vase, s,7ie
was an old maid of the oid niajis. iV~ one who
saw i/er a niomenl co//id i/ave do//bled iI.
VOL. XLV.2~. i86 MY COUSIN FANNY
them to help a feeble woman. Next time they
would expect to do it, and after a while it
would become a habit. She said no one knew
what terror women had of being run over and
trampled on.
She was, as I have said, an awful coward.
She used to stand still on the edge of the street,
and look up and down both ways ever so long;
then go out in the street and stand still, look
both ways and then run back; or as like as not,
start on and turn and run back after she was
more than half-way across, and so get into real
danger. One day, as she was passing along, a
driver had in his cart an old bag-of-bones of a
horse, which he was beating to make him pull up
the hill, and Cousin Fanny, with an old maids
meddlesomeness, rushed out in the street and
caught hold of him and made him stop, which
of course collected a crowd, and, just as she was
coming back, a little cart came rattling along,
and, though she was in no earthly danger, she
ran so to get out of the way of the horse that
she tripped and fell down in the street and hurt
herself. So much for cowardice.
The doctor finally told her that she had no-
thing the matter with her, except something
with her nerves and, I believe, her spine, and
that she wanted company (you see she was a
good deal alone). He said it was the first law
of health ever laid down, that it was not good
for man to be alone; that loneliness is a spe-
cific disease. He said she wanted occupation,
some sort of work to interest her, and make
her forget her aches and ailments. He sug-
gested missionaryworkofsomekind. This was
one of the worst things he could have told her,
for there was no missionary work to be had
where she lived. Besides, she could not have
done missionary work; she had never done
anything in her life; she was always wasting
her time pottering about the county on her old
horse, seeing sick old darkies or poor people
in the pines. No matter how bad the weather
was, nor how deep the roads, she would go
prowling around to see some old aunty or
uncle, in their out-of-the-way cabins, or
somebodys sick child. I have met her on old
Fashion in the rain, toiling along in roads that
were knee-deep to get the doctor to come to
see some sick person, or to get a dose of physic
from the depot. How could she have done
any missionary work?
I believe she repaid the doctor for his care
of her by sending him a charity patient to
look after Scroggss eldest girl, who was bed-
ridden or something. Cousin Fanny had a
fancy that she was musical. I never knew
how it was arranged. I think the doctor sent
the money down to have the child brought on
to New York for him to see. I suppose Cousin
Fanny turned beggar, and asked him. I know
she told him the child was the daughter of a
friend of hers (a curious sort of friend Scroggs
was, a drunken reprobate, who had done every-
thing he could to cheat her), and she took a
great deal of trouble to get her to the train,
lending old Fashion to haul her, which was
a good deal more than lending herself; and
the doctor treated her in New York for three
months without any charge, till, I believe, the
child got better. Old maids do not mind giv-
ing people trouble.
She hung on at the old place as long as she
could, but it had to be sold, and finally she had
to leave it; though, I believe, even after it was
sold she tried boarding for a while with Scroggs,
the former tenant, who had bought it. He
cheated her, in one way or another, out of all of
her part of the money, claiming offsets for ser-
vices rendered her, and treated her so badly
that finally she had to leave, and boarded
around. I believe the real cause was she caught
him plowing with old Fashion.
After that I do not know exactly what she
did. I heard that though the parish was vacant
she had a Sunday school at the old church, and
so kept the church open, and that she used to
play the wheezy old organ and teach the poor
children the chants; but as they grew up they
all joined the Baptist church; they had a new
organ there. I do not know just how she got
on. I was surprised to hear finally that she
was deadhad been dead since Christmas.
It had never occurred to me that she would
die. She had been dying so long that I had
almost come to regard her as immortal, and
as a necessary part of the old county and its
associations.
I fell in some time afterward with a young
doctor from the old county, who, I found, had
attended her, and I made some inquiries about
her. He told me that she died Christmas night.
She came to his house on her old mare, in the
rain and snow the night before, to get him to
go to see some one, some friend of hers who
was sick. He said she had more sick friends than
any one he ever knew; he told her that he was
sick himself and could not go; but she was so
importunate that he promised to go next morn-
ing (she was always very worrying). He said
she was wet and shivering then (she never had
any idea about really protecting herself; her
resources being exhausted in her fancies), and
that she appeared to have a wretched cold.
She had been riding all day seeing about a
Christmas tree for the poor children. He urged
her to stop and spend the night, but she in-
sisted that she must go on, though it was quite
dark and raining hard, and the roads would
have mired a cat (old maids are so self-willed).
Next day he went to see the sick woman, and
when he arrived he found her in one bed and MY CO US/N FANNY. 187
Cousin Fanny in another, in the same room.
XVhen he had examined the patient, he turned
and asked Cousin Fanny what was the matter
with her. Oh, just a little cold, a little trou-
ble in the chest, as Theodore Hook said, she
replied. But I know how to doctor myself.
Something about her voice struck him. He
went over to her and looked at her, and found
her suffering from acute pneumonia. He at
once set to work on her. He took the other
patient up in his arms and carried her into an-
other room, where he told her that Cousin
Fanny was a desperately ill woman. She was
actually dying then, sir, he said to me, and
she died that night. When she arrived at the
place the night before, which was not until after
nine oclock, she had gone to the stable her-
self to put up her old mare, or rather to see that
she was fed,she always did that,so when
she got into the house she was xvet and chilled
through, and she had to go to bed. She must
have had on wet clothes, he said.
I asked him if she knew she was going to
die. He said he did not think she did; that
he did not tell her, and she talked about
nothing except her Christmas tree and the peo-
ple she wanted to see. He heard her praying
in the night, and, by the way, he said, she
mentioned you. She shortly became rather de-
lirious, and wandered a good deal, talking of
things that must have happened when she was
young; spoke of going to see her mother some-
where. The last thing she ever said was some-
thing about fashion, which, he said, showed
how ingrained is vanity in the female mind.
The doctor knows something of human na-
ture. He concluded what he had to say with,
She was in some respects a very remarkable
woman if she had not been an old maid. I do
not suppose that she ever drew a-well breath in
her life. Not that I think old maids cannot
be very acceptable women, he apologized.
They are sometimes very useful. The doctor
was a rather enlightened man.
Some of her relatives got there in time for
the funeral, and a good many of the poor
people came; and she was carried in a little old
spring wagon, drawn by Fashion, through the
snow, to the old home place, where Scroggs
very kindly let them dig the grave, and was
buried there in the old graveyard in the gar-
den, in a vacant space just beside her mother,
with the children around her. I really miss her
a great deal. The other boys say they do the
same. I suppose it is the trouble she used to
give us.
The old set are all doing well. Doug is a
professor. He says the word spinster gave
him a twist to philology. Old Blinky is in
Paris. He had a picture in the salon last year,
an autumn landscape, called Le C6/6 du Bois.
I believe the translation of that is The Wood-
side. His coloring is said to be nature itself.
To think of old Blinky being a great artist!
Little Kitty is now a big girl, and is doing finely
at school. I have told her she must not be an
old maid. Joe is a preacher with a church in
the purlieus of a large city. I was there not
long ago. He had a choral service. The Gre-
gorian music carried me back to old times. He
preached on the text, I was sick, and ye visited
me. It was such a fine sermon, and he had such
a large congregation, that I askedwhy he did not
go to a finer church. He said he was carry-
ing soup to Mrs. Ronquist. By the way, his
organist was a splendid musician. She intro-
duced herself to me. It was Scroggss daughter!
She is married, and can walk as well as I can!
She had a little girl with her that I think she
called Fanny. I do not think that was Mrs.
Scroggss name. Frank is now a doctor, or
rather a surgeon, in the same city with Joe, and
becoming very distinguished. The other day
he performed a great operation, saving a wo-
man s life, which was in all the papers. He
said to an interviewer that he became a sur-
geon from dressing a sore on an old mare s
back. I wonder what he was talking about.
He is about to start a womans hospital for
poor women. Cousin Fanny would have been
glad of that; she-was always proud of Frank.
She would as likely as not have quoted that
verse from Tennysons song about the echoes.
She sleeps now under the myrtle at Scroggss.
I have often thought of what that doctor said
about her: that she would have been a very
remarkable woman, if she had not been an old
maidI mean, a spinster.
Thomas Nelson Page.~YM.MAIDER,
RINGING THE CHRISTMAS BELLS.

Edwin H. BlashfieldBlashfield, Edwin H.The Century Series of Pictures by American Artists. Ringing the Christmas Bells188-189

~YM.MAIDER,
RINGING THE CHRISTMAS BELLS.THE NEW CASHIER.
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE FAITH DOCTOR, THE HOOSIER SCHOOLMASTER, ETC.
friend MaCartney-Smith has
working theories for everything.
He illustrated one of these the
other day by relating something
that happened in the Giralda
apartment-house, where he lives
in a suite overlooking Central Park. I do not
remember whether he was expounding his
notion that the apartment-house has solved
the question of Cooperative housekeeping, or
whether he was engaged in demonstrating
Certain propositions regarding the influence of
the city on the country. Since I have forgot-
ten what it was intended to prove, the incident
has seemed more interesting. It is bad for a
story to medicate it with a theory. However,
here are the facts as Macartney-Smith relates
them with his Q. E. D. omitted.
I DO not know [he began] by what accident
or on what recommendation the manager of
the Giralda brought a girl from Iowa to act
as clerk and cashier in the restaurant.
The new cashier had lived in a town where
there were differences in social standing, but
no recognized distinctions, after you had left
out the sedimentary poverty-stricken class.
She not only had no notions of the lines of
social cleavage in a great apartment-house, but
she had never heard of chaperonage, or those
other indelicacies that go along with the high
civilization of a metropolis. I have no doubt
she was the best scholar in the arithmetic class
in the village high school, and ten to one she
was the champion at croquet. She took life
with a zest unknown to us New Yorkers, and
let the starchiest people in the house know
that she was glad to see them when they re-
turned after an absence, by going across the
dining-room to shake hands with them and to
inquire whether they had had a good time.
Even the gently frigid manner of Mrs. Drupe
could not chill her friendliness; she was ac-
customed to accost that lady in the elevator,
and demand, How is Mr. Drupe? whenever
that gentleman chanced to be absent. It was
not possible for her to imagine that Mrs. Drupe
could be otherwise than grateful for any mani-
festation of a friendly interest in her husband.
To show any irritation was not Mrs. Drupes
way that would have disturbed the stylish
repose of her bearing even more than mis-
placed cordiality. She always returned the
salutations of Miss Wakefield, but in a tone so
neutral, cool, and cucumberish, that she hoped
the girl would feel rebuked and learn a little
more diffidence, or at least learn that the
Drupes did not care for her acquaintance.
But the only result of such treatment was that
Miss Wakefield would say to the clerk in the
office: Your Eastern people have such stiff
ways that they make me homesick. But they
dont mean any harm, I suppose.
Some of the families in the Giralda rather
liked the new cashier; these were they who
had childrenthe little children chatted and
laughed with her across her desk when they
came down as forerunners to give the order
for the family dinner. If it were only lunch-
time, when few people were in the restaurant,
they went behind the desk and embraced the
cashier and had a romp with her. The smallest
chaps she would take up in her arms while she
pulled out the drawers to show them her paper-
knife and trinkets; and when there were flow-
ers, she would often break off one apiece for
even those least amiable little plagues that in
an apartment-house are the torment of their
nurses and mamas the livelong day. This not
only gave pleasure to the infantry, but relieved
an aching which the poor girl had for a once
cheerful home, now broken up by the death
~f her parents and the scattering abroad of
brothers and sisters.
The young men in the house thought her a
jolly girl, since she would chat with them over
her desk as freely as she would have chatted
across the counter with the clerks in Cedar
Falls, where she ~came from. She was equally
cordial with the head-waiter, and those of his
staff who knew any more English than was in-
dispensable to the taking of an order. But her
frank familiarity with young gentlemen, and
friendly speech with servants, were offensive to
some of the ladies. They talked it over, and
decided that Miss Wakefield was not a mod-
est girl; that at least she did not know her place,
and that the manager ought to dismiss her if
he meant to maintain the tone of the house.
The manager, poor fellow, had to hold his own
place against the rivalry of the treasurer, and
when such complaints were made to him
what could he do? He stood out a while for
Miss Wakefield, whom he liked, but when the
influential Mrs. Drupe wrote to him that the
cashier at the desk in the restaurant was not
a well-behaved girl, he knew that it was time
to look out for another.

Edward EgglestonEggleston, EdwardThe New Cashier189-191

THE NEW CASHIER.
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE FAITH DOCTOR, THE HOOSIER SCHOOLMASTER, ETC.
friend MaCartney-Smith has
working theories for everything.
He illustrated one of these the
other day by relating something
that happened in the Giralda
apartment-house, where he lives
in a suite overlooking Central Park. I do not
remember whether he was expounding his
notion that the apartment-house has solved
the question of Cooperative housekeeping, or
whether he was engaged in demonstrating
Certain propositions regarding the influence of
the city on the country. Since I have forgot-
ten what it was intended to prove, the incident
has seemed more interesting. It is bad for a
story to medicate it with a theory. However,
here are the facts as Macartney-Smith relates
them with his Q. E. D. omitted.
I DO not know [he began] by what accident
or on what recommendation the manager of
the Giralda brought a girl from Iowa to act
as clerk and cashier in the restaurant.
The new cashier had lived in a town where
there were differences in social standing, but
no recognized distinctions, after you had left
out the sedimentary poverty-stricken class.
She not only had no notions of the lines of
social cleavage in a great apartment-house, but
she had never heard of chaperonage, or those
other indelicacies that go along with the high
civilization of a metropolis. I have no doubt
she was the best scholar in the arithmetic class
in the village high school, and ten to one she
was the champion at croquet. She took life
with a zest unknown to us New Yorkers, and
let the starchiest people in the house know
that she was glad to see them when they re-
turned after an absence, by going across the
dining-room to shake hands with them and to
inquire whether they had had a good time.
Even the gently frigid manner of Mrs. Drupe
could not chill her friendliness; she was ac-
customed to accost that lady in the elevator,
and demand, How is Mr. Drupe? whenever
that gentleman chanced to be absent. It was
not possible for her to imagine that Mrs. Drupe
could be otherwise than grateful for any mani-
festation of a friendly interest in her husband.
To show any irritation was not Mrs. Drupes
way that would have disturbed the stylish
repose of her bearing even more than mis-
placed cordiality. She always returned the
salutations of Miss Wakefield, but in a tone so
neutral, cool, and cucumberish, that she hoped
the girl would feel rebuked and learn a little
more diffidence, or at least learn that the
Drupes did not care for her acquaintance.
But the only result of such treatment was that
Miss Wakefield would say to the clerk in the
office: Your Eastern people have such stiff
ways that they make me homesick. But they
dont mean any harm, I suppose.
Some of the families in the Giralda rather
liked the new cashier; these were they who
had childrenthe little children chatted and
laughed with her across her desk when they
came down as forerunners to give the order
for the family dinner. If it were only lunch-
time, when few people were in the restaurant,
they went behind the desk and embraced the
cashier and had a romp with her. The smallest
chaps she would take up in her arms while she
pulled out the drawers to show them her paper-
knife and trinkets; and when there were flow-
ers, she would often break off one apiece for
even those least amiable little plagues that in
an apartment-house are the torment of their
nurses and mamas the livelong day. This not
only gave pleasure to the infantry, but relieved
an aching which the poor girl had for a once
cheerful home, now broken up by the death
~f her parents and the scattering abroad of
brothers and sisters.
The young men in the house thought her a
jolly girl, since she would chat with them over
her desk as freely as she would have chatted
across the counter with the clerks in Cedar
Falls, where she ~came from. She was equally
cordial with the head-waiter, and those of his
staff who knew any more English than was in-
dispensable to the taking of an order. But her
frank familiarity with young gentlemen, and
friendly speech with servants, were offensive to
some of the ladies. They talked it over, and
decided that Miss Wakefield was not a mod-
est girl; that at least she did not know her place,
and that the manager ought to dismiss her if
he meant to maintain the tone of the house.
The manager, poor fellow, had to hold his own
place against the rivalry of the treasurer, and
when such complaints were made to him
what could he do? He stood out a while for
Miss Wakefield, whom he liked, but when the
influential Mrs. Drupe wrote to him that the
cashier at the desk in the restaurant was not
a well-behaved girl, he knew that it was time
to look out for another. 190 TIlL? NEW CASH1EA~.
If the manager had forewarned her, she could
have saved money enough to take her back
to iowa, where she might dare to be as friendly
as she pleased with other respectable humans
without fear of reproach. But he was not such
a fool as to let go of one cashier till he had found
another. It was while the manager was decid-
ing which of three other young women to take
that Mr. Drupe was stricken with apoplexy.
He had finished eating his luncheon, which
was served in the apartment, and had lighted
a cigar, when he fell over. There were no
children, and the Drupes kept no servant, but
depended on the housekeeper to send them
a maid when they required one, so that Mrs.
Drupe found herself alone with her prostrate
husband. The distracted wife did not know
what to do; she took hold of the needle of the
teleserne, but the words on the dial were con-
fused; she quickly moved the needle round over
the whole twenty-four points, but none of them
suited the case. She stopped it at porter,
moved it to bootblack, carried it around
to ice-water, and successively to coupe,
laundress, and messenger-boy, and then
gave up in despair, and jerked open the door
that led to the hall. Miss Wakefield had just
come up to the next apartment to inquire after
a little girl ill from a cold, and was returning
toward the elevator when Mrs. Drupes wild
face was suddenly thrust forth upon her.
Wont you call a boy somebody. My
husband is dying, were the words that greeted
Miss Wakefield at the moment of the appari-
tion of the despairing face.
Miss Wakefield rushed past Mrs. Drupe into
the apartment, and turned the teleseme to the
word manager, and then pressed the but-
ton three times in quick succession. She knew
that a call for the manager would suggest fire,
robbery, and sudden death, and that it would
wake up the lethargic forces in the office. Then
she turned to the form of the man lying pros-
trate on the floor, seized a pillow from the
lounge, and motioned to Mrs. Drupe to raise
his head while she laid it beneath.
Who is your doctor? she demanded.
Dr. Morris; but it s a mile away, said the
distracted woman. Wont you send a boy in
a coup~?
I 11 go myself, the boys are so slow, said
the cashier. Shall I send you a neighboring
doctor till Dr. Morris can get here?
Do, do, pleaded the wife, now wildly
wringing her hands.
Miss Wakefield caught the elevator as it
DRAWN DY C. A. GIBSON
SHE WOULD CHAT WITH THEM OVER HER DESK.landed the manager on the floor, and she briefly
told him what was the matter. Then she de-
scended, and had the clerk order a coupe by
telephone, and then herself sent Dr. Floyd from
across the street, while she ran to the stable,
leaped into the coupe before the horse was
fairly hitched up, and drove for Dr. Morris.
Dr. Morris found Mrs. Drupe already a
widow when he arrived with the cashier. The
latter promptly secured the addresses of Mr.
Drupes brother and of his business partner,
again entered the coup~, and soon had the poor
woman in the hands of her friends.
The energetic girl went to her room that night
exhilarated by her own prompt and kind-
hearted action. But the evil spirit that loves to
mar our happiness had probably arranged it
that on that very evening she received a note
from the manager notifying her that her services
would not be required after one more week.
On inquiry the next day she learned that some
of the ladies had complained of her hehavior,
and she vainly tried to remember what she had
done that was capable of misconstruction. She
also vainly tried to imagine how she was to live,
or by what means she was to contrive to get
back to those who knew her too well to suspect
her of any evil. She was so much perplexed by
the desperate state of her own affairs that she
even neglected to attend Mr. Drupes funeral,
191
but she hoped that Mrs. Drupe would not take
it unkindly.
It was with a heavy heart that the manager
called Miss Wakefield into his office on the
ground floor in order that he might pay her last
weeks wages. He was relieved that she seemed
to accept her dismissal with cheerfulness.
What are you going to do? he asked
timidly.
Why, did nt you know? she said. I am
to live with Mrs. Drupe as a companion, and
to look out for her affairs and collect her rents.
I used to think she did nt like me. But it will
be a good lesson to those ladies who found fault
with me for nothing when they see how much
Mrs. Drupe thinks of me.
And she went her way to her new home in
Mrs. Drupes apartment, at the end of the hall
on the sixth floor, while the manager took from
a pigeon-hole Mrs. Drupes letter of complaint
against the former cashier, and read it over
carefully.
The thickness of the walls at the base of so
lofty a building made it difficult for daylight to
work its way through the tunnel-like windows,
so that in this office a gas-jet was necessary in
the daytime. After a moments reflection, the
manager touched Mrs. I)rupes letter of com-
plaint to the flame, and it was presently reduced
to everlasting illegibility.
Edward Egglesto;z.
SEEMING FAILURE.
THE woodland silence, one time stirred
By the soft pathos of some passing bird,
Is not the same it was before.
The spot where once, unseen, a flower
Has held its fragile chalice to the shower,
Is different forevermore.
Unheard, unseen,
A spell has been!
O thou that breathest year by year
Music that falls unheeded on the ear,
Take heart, fate has not baffled thee!
Thou that with tints of earth and skies
Fillest thy canvas for unseeing eyes,
Thou hast not labored futilely.
Unheard, unseen,
A spell has been!
SEEMING FAIL C/RE.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

Thomas Bailey AldrichAldrich, Thomas BaileySeeming Failure191-192

landed the manager on the floor, and she briefly
told him what was the matter. Then she de-
scended, and had the clerk order a coupe by
telephone, and then herself sent Dr. Floyd from
across the street, while she ran to the stable,
leaped into the coupe before the horse was
fairly hitched up, and drove for Dr. Morris.
Dr. Morris found Mrs. Drupe already a
widow when he arrived with the cashier. The
latter promptly secured the addresses of Mr.
Drupes brother and of his business partner,
again entered the coup~, and soon had the poor
woman in the hands of her friends.
The energetic girl went to her room that night
exhilarated by her own prompt and kind-
hearted action. But the evil spirit that loves to
mar our happiness had probably arranged it
that on that very evening she received a note
from the manager notifying her that her services
would not be required after one more week.
On inquiry the next day she learned that some
of the ladies had complained of her hehavior,
and she vainly tried to remember what she had
done that was capable of misconstruction. She
also vainly tried to imagine how she was to live,
or by what means she was to contrive to get
back to those who knew her too well to suspect
her of any evil. She was so much perplexed by
the desperate state of her own affairs that she
even neglected to attend Mr. Drupes funeral,
191
but she hoped that Mrs. Drupe would not take
it unkindly.
It was with a heavy heart that the manager
called Miss Wakefield into his office on the
ground floor in order that he might pay her last
weeks wages. He was relieved that she seemed
to accept her dismissal with cheerfulness.
What are you going to do? he asked
timidly.
Why, did nt you know? she said. I am
to live with Mrs. Drupe as a companion, and
to look out for her affairs and collect her rents.
I used to think she did nt like me. But it will
be a good lesson to those ladies who found fault
with me for nothing when they see how much
Mrs. Drupe thinks of me.
And she went her way to her new home in
Mrs. Drupes apartment, at the end of the hall
on the sixth floor, while the manager took from
a pigeon-hole Mrs. Drupes letter of complaint
against the former cashier, and read it over
carefully.
The thickness of the walls at the base of so
lofty a building made it difficult for daylight to
work its way through the tunnel-like windows,
so that in this office a gas-jet was necessary in
the daytime. After a moments reflection, the
manager touched Mrs. I)rupes letter of com-
plaint to the flame, and it was presently reduced
to everlasting illegibility.
Edward Egglesto;z.
SEEMING FAILURE.
THE woodland silence, one time stirred
By the soft pathos of some passing bird,
Is not the same it was before.
The spot where once, unseen, a flower
Has held its fragile chalice to the shower,
Is different forevermore.
Unheard, unseen,
A spell has been!
O thou that breathest year by year
Music that falls unheeded on the ear,
Take heart, fate has not baffled thee!
Thou that with tints of earth and skies
Fillest thy canvas for unseeing eyes,
Thou hast not labored futilely.
Unheard, unseen,
A spell has been!
SEEMING FAIL C/RE.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.BENEFITS FORGOT.
By the Author of Reffey, A Common Story, Captain, My Captain, etc.
IT was James Deeds wedding-morning, and
the town knew it. Deed himself was so full
of the knowledge of it that his face would
break from time to time, without his will, into
a fond and incommunicable smile of happiness
as he rode alone toward Maverick on his
horse. His eye measured the crisp and spark-
ling Colorado morning; and he took the sun
upon his large, wholesome, likable face, with
the pleasant feeling that its shining was for him.
The agreeable world seemed to have him in
thought, and to be minded to do the hand-
some thing by his wedding-day. And the evil
things, the blizzards and sand-storms, and the
winds that will be howling at all hours in Col-
orado, shunned the face of this thrice-blessed
day.
The cattle pony which Deed was riding had
got the news of the kindling morning air,
though he lacked word of the wedding; but
192
WOLCOTT BALESTIER.
I,

Wolcott BalestierBalestier, WolcottBenefits Forgot192-207

BENEFITS FORGOT.
By the Author of Reffey, A Common Story, Captain, My Captain, etc.
IT was James Deeds wedding-morning, and
the town knew it. Deed himself was so full
of the knowledge of it that his face would
break from time to time, without his will, into
a fond and incommunicable smile of happiness
as he rode alone toward Maverick on his
horse. His eye measured the crisp and spark-
ling Colorado morning; and he took the sun
upon his large, wholesome, likable face, with
the pleasant feeling that its shining was for him.
The agreeable world seemed to have him in
thought, and to be minded to do the hand-
some thing by his wedding-day. And the evil
things, the blizzards and sand-storms, and the
winds that will be howling at all hours in Col-
orado, shunned the face of this thrice-blessed
day.
The cattle pony which Deed was riding had
got the news of the kindling morning air,
though he lacked word of the wedding; but
192
WOLCOTT BALESTIER.
I, BENEFITS FORGOT 93
it was enough that he also knew what it was
to be happy. Deed patted his flank affection-
ately, as they swung into town together; and
he was of a mind to give good morrow to the
herd that came to the barbed-wire fence to
observe his happiness with impassive eyes. It
was too early to see Margaret; but when he
had waked at the ranch house on his cattle-
range, where he had spent the last few days,
he had found it impossible to remain quietly
within doors, and since he must ride, it was the
nearest thing to seeing her to ride in her di-
rection.
The curtains were still down at the windows
of the house where Margaret had been staying
with Beatrice Vertner for a month. The Vert-
ners occupied the largest dwelling in Maverick
except the brick house which Snell had built
since he had made his strike at Aspen; its archi-
tecture was in the journeyman carpenter Queen
Anne manner common to Western towns which
have reached their second stage. The pony,
accustomed to stopping, swerved in toward the
gate, and Deed was obliged to restrain him,
unwillingly. There was no one in sight to mind
that he should kiss his hand to a certain cur-
tain in the second story; but he was obliged
to content himself with this. He gave the pony
the rein, and went swinging into Maverick by
way of Mesa street.
His eye roved anxiously, with another
thought, as he galloped along, over the circle
of snow-peaks that separated Lone Creek Val-
ley from the world outside, and rested on a
cleft in the white hills through which his younger
son, Philip, should at the moment be making
his way from Piiion on horseback, to be present
at the wedding in the afternoon.
Zacatecas Pass, which found its way through
this breach in the Sangre de Cristo Range, led
down, at a point thirty miles above Maverick,
to the railway by which Philip should be tak-
ing a train within a few hours. A dusty cloud,
of which Deed feared~ he knew the meaning,
hung above the trail. It seemed probable that
it was snowing in the mountains. If it was,
Philip would almost certainly fail to arrive in
time: it was equally certain that he would be
in danger.
There had been a thaw, succeeded by freez-
ing weather, and the crusted snow clung to the
huge mountain shapes as if it were molded on
them.
It was charming to follow the modeling of
their mighty bulks under the conforming yes-
ture of white, swelling and dying away in divine
suggestions of hidden grace, with the effect of
a maidens raiment. The edged lines by which
the hills mounted to the summits lay crumpled
on one another, buried in softness. The snow
plumped the hollows; and pursued their climb-
VOL. XLV. 26-27.
ing sides to the most secret fold. The angles
were curves, and the curves glistering reaches
of satin; for at every point the sunlight meshed
itself in a gleam of white, and the whole field
of snow shone with a blinding glitter.
In fact, the polished radiance of the hills
gave off a glare which the eye could not meet
with patience, and Deed, withdrawing his
glance from the mountains, fixed it on the scat-
tered town into which he was coming. He
knew every building in it: he had seen most
of them go up. He remembered when the gen-
eral supply-store of Maverick had stoodif
a tent may be said to standwhere the post-
office now reared its ugly splendor of brick,
stone-trimmed and mansard-roofed. In the
road over which he was riding there was a fa-
miliar spot where an embattled squatter had
held his own against the town for a twelve-
month, refusing to move the log cabin which
he had built in the center of Mesa street before
there was a Mesa street. Deed had contributed
to the building of the Episcopal church, past
which he was riding at the moment; and as
he glanced at its roof and front, he was sorry
that he had not put aside more profitable busi-
ness long enough to get himself appointed a
member of the committee on its architecture.
He tried to excuse himself by remembering
that he had insisted on the simple and genuine
Gothic interior, carried out in pine, which made
it a very tolerable little church within.
He had had nothing to do with the roller
skating-rink, nor with the Grand Opera House,
which depressed the observer by its resemblance
to Libby Prison, though it was an achievement
of wood, and claphoarded up to the summit of
its false front. The ingenuousness of the pre-
tense with which the false front faces down
the spectator in the new towns of the West
would be almost a thing to disarm criticism if
the front, in iLself~ were more beautiful; cer-
tainly if it were le~ hideous one would hardly
like to humiliate it by going around behind
and spying out the nakedness of the device.
As Deeds eye ranged over the roofs of the
main street behind the fronts, he smiled at
the disproportion between the actual height
of the squat buildings, and the height which the
fronts alleged for them. His happiness gave an
edge to his observation; he saw familiar things
as if for the first time. On the treeless plain over
which Maverick was dispersed nothing ob-
structed the vision for miles, and from so slight
an elevation as that along which Deed was
cantering one commanded a panoramic view
of the entire place. The hotel at the station, the
public school with its high central tower, the
post-office, and the railway hospital, were
the only structures, besides the church, which
lifted themselves above the level of the pre 94 BENEFITS FORGOT
vailing one- and two-storied buildings. Except
in the main street, the dwelling-houses lay iso-
lated from one another in archipelagoes, mark-
ing the push of the real-estate boom to one and
another corner of the young city.
As Deed came into the business center of
the place, distinguished as such by the board
sidewalk that went loftily along the thorough-
fare on each side of the way, by the blazonries
in red, black, and chrome-yellow on the mus-
lin signs tacked upon the fronts of the shops,
and by the tethered cattle-ponies, burros, and
Studebaker wagons of the ranchmen who be-
gan to come into town, he was hailed by a
loitering group gathered about a telegraph-pole
in front of the post-office.
Goin the wrong way round, aint you,
Mayor? inquired one of the group.
Deed had served the unexpired term of a
mayor of Maverick who had suffered the in-
convenience of being shot in the early days of
the town; and the usual military titles refus-
ing to fasten themselves readily to a certain
dignity which the town recognized in him, it
had compromised upon Mayor, as being a
fortunate combination of the respectful and
the jocular.
Deeds answering smile owned the impeach-
ment of the humorous reference; but the eti-
quette of Western chaff is not to sanction such
an understanding with speech. It is, rather,
de rzgueur to meet such references with a hea
venly unconsciousness of innocence, and to
own them only deep within the understanding
eye, which admits both parties to such ameni-
ties into the open secret of the no-secret.
Well, yes; for Aspen and some places up
Eagle River way I m going a good ways
around, Burke, said Deed, with twinkling eyes,
as he checked the pony; but I m headed
right for the telegraph-office, I think, unless
I ye taken my observations wrong.
He was giving his pony the rein as some
one said, There was some tell about town
here, Mr. Mayor, of your having asked unani-
mous consent to make another matter a special
order of business for to-day. The postmaster,
who had served a term in the legislature, was
fond of the phrases he had learned at Denver.
Yes; anything we can do for you, you
know, darkly intimated the young fellow on
whom the towns repute for the possession of
the hardest drinker in the county depended.
On Sundays Sandy was the sexton of the Epis-
copal church; other days he divided between
Iras and certain odd jobs.
To be sure; that reminds me there is
something you can do for me, Sandy. Ira has
my orders. Call on him this evening, and take
the camp.
Make it a dozen, Mayor, wheedled Sandy.
Could nt, responded Deed. I ye made
it two. He smiled at the group. Sandy guf-
fawed his enjoyment of the prospect. The rest
coiled their tongues deep in their cheeks, shifted
the pain of sustaining their bodies from one
leg to the other, and gazed at the Mayors
with a broad smile.
Denver? asked some one.
Deed shook his head. Y. and Z.s.
Bottles?
Kegs.
He surveyed the grinning group with a smile,
as he caught up the reins. The points at which
he differed from them were perhaps rather
more obvious at the moment than those by
which he was allied to the life of the place
and of the West. In spite of eight years spent
in the West, broken only by occasional visits
to his old home in New York, and, while Mar-
garet was still in question, by a single visit to
Europe, his bearing retained a sort of distinc-
tion which no measure of consent to a civili-
zation that surveys life with its hands in its
pockets, and its trousers in its boots, was likely
to vitiate.
In being unaggressive, this bearing escaped
the condemnation under which all forms of
aloofness from the common lot properly lie in
the West; and in being on humorous terms
with itself, it rather commended itself than
otherwise to a people who must see life as a
joke if they would escape seeing it as a tragedy.
It was far from being his manner of distinction
that gave Deed his place in the regard of
Maverick, and of Lone Creek County, of
course; and it was scarcely by it that he pre-
vailed in his practice before the Supreme Court
at Denver, or in his fights for mineral claims
at Leadville. He counted, as every one does
in the West who counts at all, by pure force.
Deed liked the West as men like what serves
their ends, and for something more. There was
a kind of oliligation of gratitude upon him to
like it, for it had been his rescue from lethargy
after the death of his wife in New York ten
years before. He had had no wish to live when
he came West, and his friends were surprised
to hear after six months that he was still alive.
He was what is called a very sick man when
he reached Maverick; and as he was also a
very miserable one, the chances that he would
presently be borne to the desolate little grave-
yard on the mesa just outside the limits of Mav-
erick were rather better than the chances of hi~
pulling through to find a new strength with his
reviving interest in life. In the event he not
only came around, as the neighbors said,
but, in laying hold upon the practice of his.
profession again, discovered a pleasure in pur-
suing the application of its principles to new
conditions. BENEFITS FORGOT 95
He chaffed the West, now, when he met a
man who, like himself, had once been a New-
Yorker or a Bostonian; but this was by way
of reminding himself to remember how absurd
the whole affair was, after all. The real fact
was, that, absorbed in his work in creating a
future for his boys, and finally in accumulating
the fortune which he had seen might be his one
day for the use of the needful energy, he had
forgotten to philosophize the West, as he had
been used to do while from his sick-bed he lay
staring idly on a range of mountains which he
remembered thinking too big. Consciously or
unconsciously, he had cast in his lot with this
huge, crudely prosperous, blundering, untu-
tored land; and if he had still reserves, there
was never time left from his mines, his cattle,
and his law to think of them.
He was putting spurs to his horse as Snell,
the leading merchant of the place, who had
just joined the group, inquired suggestively,
The young men will hardly arrive in time for
the ceremony, I take it, Mr. Deed?
I dont know, Mr. Snell, said Deed, re-
straining the pony, which was chafing to be off
again. I hope to see Philip. He s dropped
his mining experiment up at Pifion, at my sug-
gestion, and he will get through by the two-
thirty train, I hope, if he gets over the Pass all
right. I dont know whether to hope that he
has left Laughing Valley City or not. I m just
on my way to the telegraph-office to inquire.
He cast a doubtful look toward Zacatecas Pass.
Looks some like snow up around the Pass,
commented one of those young men of middle
age who, in the West, somehow keep the sap
of youth jogging lustily in their veins at an age
when it has dried out, or soaked down into the
roots, of New England men. It is possible that
the speculative fancy of man does not engen-
der a new scheme with every moon for nothing.
It does look like snow, owned Deed, as
he glanced anxiously again toward the moun-
tains; and some one ventured t~ ask him about
Jasper. He was detained by business in New
York, he said, at which Snell exchanged a sig-
nificant glance with his neighbor. He hardly
expected him for the wedding, Deed added. It
~vas pretty well known in Maverick that Jas-
per wasted no approval on his fathers second
marriage; and there were persons who saw
dubious things beneath the peremptory sum-
mons which he had given out a fortnight ago
as calling him to New York.
As Deed, to cut short the embarrassment of
this line of questioning, definitively caught up
the reins, and gave the pony a cut with the
quirt, the group gathered about him lifted their
sombreros, or such rakish or merely slovenly
caps as they wore, and swung them about their
heads in the burlesque by which Western man-
ners express their condescension to the customs
of a superseded civilization. It was not a bow,
nor precisely a ceremony of farewell, but a
mixed expression of thanks for the irrigation
to be offered at Iras in the evening, and of an
embarrassed sentiment of congratulation on
the event of the day, which did not quite know
the smartest way of conveying itself.
When some one inquired, What s the mat-
ter with James Deed, Esquire? and the crowd
gave the foreordained answer with a single
voice, they had really done for him all that one
sovereign can do for another in the way of ex-
pression of good will: it was frankincense and
myrrh, and oil and wine and precious stones,
offered him on a tray of gold, if you like. It
was meant for the same thing, and Deed did
not like it less. He turned in his saddle, and
waved his own wide-brimmed hat to them in
acknowledgment, his fine smile on his lips.
THE Colorado sunshine was flooding the
room in which Margaret awaited his coming,
without let from blinds or shades. She stood
in the big patch of radiance flung upon a rag
carpet past fear of fading, and looked wistfully
out of the window. The house stood a little
apart, at the head of Mesa street, the chief thor-
oughfare of Maverick, near the outskirts of the
town, and, in the clear mountain air she could
see for a long distance down the road.
Breakfast was over, and Beatrice Vertner
had left her to attend to some household duties,
which weddings apparently do not make less
important in their process of dwarfing all other
concerns.
A quarrel between father and son, Margaret
was saying to herself, as she stood by the win-
dow, it had not come to that yet, but that
Jaspers opposition to his fathers second mar-
riage had been saved from that only by the
moderation and temperance of her husband
who was to be, sh~ felt sure, seemed, at best,
a wretched business; but this was, she felt, un-
bearably sad. In the foolish days when she
was saying Deed nay because she did not yet
know herself, and he was following her from
New York to Paris, and from Paris to Geneva,
and from Geneva to Naples, patient, decently
doubtful of himself, but persistent, she had
seen what it cost him merely to be separated
from his sons. Later, she had come to under-
stand how the obligation he had felt to find
something within himself to replace the tender
care of the mother his boys had lost before
they were old enough to know the meaning of
such a loss must have reacted upon and en-
riched his feeling for them. She remembered
how, seeing that his concern for their welfare
was the substance and texture of his life, she
had warned him it was at Naplesthat such 196 BENEFITS FORGOT
affection as his played with high stakes; and
how his face had darkened almost angrily at
her hint of the possibility that sons might dis-
appoint ones faith in them.
Just before their first meeting Deed had
bought and stocked for his boys the cattle-
range from which she hoped he was riding in
at this hour, and Jasper was established there
in undivided charge until Philip, then in the
first year of one of his foolish boys experiments
in Chile, should be ready to come back and
take his share in the management. She recalled
well enough how she had rallied their fathers
unwitting boasts of Jaspers success, how she
had assisted with inward amusement at the pre-
tense that he kept his fatherly fondness covert
by bantering it with her, and how, when that
was his mood, she had seemed to consent to
his transparent vainglory in the shrewdness of
his clever young men of twenty-four as a nat-
ural enthusiasm about a successful venture of
his own. But constantly she had the sense
of his loving pride in both his boys; and she
liked it.
Deed could not have told her, even if his
knowledge of it had got out of the region of
half-perceptions in which we keep our reluc-
tances about the faults of those we love, that
Jasper belonged to the Race of the Magnifi-
cent, who have their own waya happy pro-
vision arranging that no one shall find it worth
quite what it costs to oppose such ways. When
Margaret discovered it for herself, she had only
to put it with familiar characteristics of Deed
to understand how the partnership papers in
the range, which were the origin of the present
difficulty, had got themselves signed.
When Deed, in good-humored recognition
of Jaspers successful management of the range,
had offered him a half-share in the profits from
it until Philip should be ready to claim the
third already belonging in all but form to each
of the boys, it was like Jasper to say that it
was very good of his father, and that they
ought to put the thing on a business basis.
But it was rather more like Deed, whose
pride in Jaspers business shrewdness com-
monly took shape before the young man him-
self in a habit of ridiculing him indulgently
about it, to have laughed at him, and con-
sented. And it was not less of a tenor with
their usual relation that he should have let
Jasper have his way about giving this profit-
sharing, for a limited term, the form of a
partnership.
About his own way Margaret knew he
would have no conceit, while regarding the
symmetry of his act in giving Jasper some-
thing like the reward his faithfulness and sa-
gacity in the management of the ranch had
earned he would have a certain pride. For
Margaret, who, for her own part, had ever
frugalities and cautions to be satisfied before
she could be about a matter, both understood
and admired the recklessness with which Deed
was accustomed to do a nice thing thoroughly.
To her it was an inevitable touch of character
that he should have glanced over the papers
of partnership which Jasper had drawn up,
should have signed with a smile for his grati-
fication in doing an entirely gratifying thing,
and then should have had the boy to supper
with him at the only restaurant in town, where
they drank to the success of the range in the
champagne which had been left over from the
previous nights supper of the Order of the Oc-
cidental Star.
Deed had not meant to marry again, then,
of course, and the cattle-range was then an
incident of his fortune, instead of one of the
main facts of it, as it presently became.
When he first thought of Margaret he con-
gratulated himself that there was still the ranch,
for, at a little past forty, he found himself,
through the scoundrelly trick of a man he had
trusted, almost as entirely on his own hands
as he had been at twentywith a fortune to
be won again, and with life to be begun pretty
much afresh. When this trouble came on
him he thought of the boys; remembered
with satisfaction that they were provided for,
whatever came; shrugged his shoulders; took
a look at himself in the glass, measured him-
self thoughtfully against the future, brushed
the black lock down over the fringe of gray
in front; smiled; went out and had a good
dinner; and began again that afternoon. A
year later, when he first offered himself to
Margaret, it was pleasant to know that the
ranch was now not quite all (some of his min-
ing stocks were doing better); but the third
interest, that would still remain to him when
Philip should have claimed his share in the
range had not lost its importance to him.
And Jasper had done wonderful things with
the enterprise since they had pledged each
other in the bad wine of the Delmonico of
the West.
It was a little later that there began to be
discoverable in Jaspers manner the hints of
opposition to his fathers second marriage
which had lately come near ending in an
estrangement between father and son. The
difference between them was, after all, but
scantily patched up; and on the head of it
Jasper had set out for New York, knowing
that he could not be back in time for the wed-
ding, and leaving word that he would write
his father regarding another matter which
Deed had broached to him just before his de-
parture. The other matter was the reorgani-
zation of the arrangement at the ranch toBENEFITS FORGOT
include Philip, who had given over mining,
after a twelvemQnth in the mountains.
He had gone to Pifion on his return from
Chile, with his young mans interest in any-
thing rather than the usual and appointed
thing lying ready to his hand; but he was
now willing enough to accept his fathers ad-
vice of a year before, and to join Jasper in
looking after the ranch, where an assured in-
come awaited him. Deed had wished to see
this wandering, impulsive, hot-blooded, un-
settled son of his actually established on the
range before his marriage to Margaret. Un-
expected events at Piiion had prevented this;
but when he should come down for the wed-
ding it was arranged that he was not to re-
turn, but was to take up his residence at the
ranch immediately.
If this provision for Philips future had not
already been made when Margaret first began
to be in question, Deed could not have asked
her to marry him. He felt, in a degree which
it would be difficult to represent, his responsi-
bilities to his boys; and the long habit of
making them the first concern of his life must
have prevailed with him, whatever his feeling
for Margaret, if they had needed anything
done for them. But the ranch was a property
which, conducted with any skill, must yield
them both a handsome revenue, when both
should be established on it.
Margaret liked the faithfulness to the future
of his sons, which would not suffer him to put
even her, or their common happiness, before it.
He was determined to leave nothing at loose
ends; and he was even awaiting the formality
of Jaspers assent to the new arrangement at
the ranch, as if it were an assent which he was
free to withhold as if all property of his boys
in the ranch were not derived from his generos-
ity, and as if Jaspers present tenure were not
peculiarly by grace of his fathers good humor.
It was only a form; but Margaret knew that
Deed regarded it as a sacred preliminary to
their marriage; and when she saw him riding
up to the door, waving a letter in his hand,
she knew what letter it must be.
She ran out into the frosty air to meet him.
Standin~g on the porch, under the shadow of
the scroll-saw work, which was as much in the
Queen Anne manner as anything about the
house, she waited for him to tie his horse,
cuddling her arms about her waist. The air
had an edge. She gathered herself together:
there was the cold to keep out; and there was
a soft, interior content which she was willing
to keep in.
It was hard not to be afraid of some of her
feelings lately.
Watch your horse! she adjured, with a
little nervous shiver. He was trying to tie the
97
pony while he kept his eyes on her, and the
tying was on the way to failure. He had
taken the letter in his mouth for greater con-
venience. They both began to laugh, so that
he had to take it out.
Dearest! he whispered, as he caught her
to him in the porch. But she would not give
him his kiss until they were in the hallxvay.
It s come! she said, with a joyous nod
toward the letter in his hand, as they went
into the sitting-room, which was as discreetly
empty as the whole house seemed suddenly
to have become in the hush of their happiness.
Yes, he said, alternately offering and re-
fusing it to her, as he held her away to make
certain that she was the same Margaret with
whom he had parted the night before for the
last time, and who was to give herself to him
in a few hours.
She sniffed at the flowers he had slipped into
her hand in the hallway; and, to make sure she
did not cry, laughed at the smile of love on his
face, which often oppressed her with the obli-
gation it seemed to lay on her to keep it always
there. And then she clapped her hands and
laughed again to perceive in herself a kind of
girlish pride in his being handsome and manly,
and altogether very fine and impressive this
morning.
It was true that he was a striking figure as
he stood holding her at arms-length, and not
less so when he left her side and went over to
the mantel, where he leaned his head upon his
hand and watched her for a moment in silence,
as he struck at his riding-boots with the quirt
he had brought in with him. His hair was a
bit gray where his large round head had begun
to grow hald on each brow; but this, with his
grizzling eyebrows, and the strongly marked
lines about his mouth,which.in a younger man,
would have seemed merely the outward sign
of resolution, wer~, the only tokens by which
one would have known him to be more than
thirty-five. His hair, like his mustache, which
was the only adornment of his face, was worn
clipped rather short; and this, coupled with his
rather careful habit of dress, gave him a certain
effect of trimness and well-being uncommon in
the West. He had the habit of resting his
weight firmly upon the ground; and the dig-
nity and ease of his bearing were not lost in the
most impetuous of his habitually rapid move-
ments. His eyes had a tinge of blue in some
lights, but it was the indefinable gray in them
which gave the look of power and firmness to
his face. It is doubtful if these eyes were really
bluer in his kindly moments; but it is not
doubtful that they seemed so. That which dis-
tinguished his look and his manner, however,
after the force which no one could fail to feel
in him, was an effect of unconquerable youth- 198 BENEFITS FORGOT.
fulness and buoyancy. His eager, mildly search-
ing glances his manner of unceasing alertness
and energy, gave one the sense of a man much
alive.
He glanced with keen liking about a room
which he had known for a long time, but which,
somehow, had never been as interesting a room
as it was this morning. He was almost in a
mood to forgive the wall-paper, which insulted
the remnant of Eastern taste in him; and as
he turned and, with his hands in his pockets,
stared into the fire, not knowing what to say
in his happiness, it gave him a warm feeling
about the heart to see what a gay time the com-
bustible piixon-wood of the mountains was hav-
ing of it in the little grate. There was even a
certain light-heartedness about the what-not in
the corner, on which the collection of mineral
specimens part of the religion of Colorado
housekeepingwas reflecting the Colorado
sunshine from unexpected facets of ore; while
the iron pyrites winked in the sun at some pos-
sible tenderfoot mistaking it for gold.
Beatrice Vertners taste had contrived to
give a homelike expression to such furniture as
there was; but the room was rather bare. The
big photograph of Veta Pass, in which a train
had stopped to be taken, hung in frameless,
fly-spotted solitude above the tennis-rackets
and riding-crops in one corner. There was a
good engraving above the fireplace, framed
in unpianed scantling, and two clever oil-
paintings by some of Beatrices Eastern friends
brightened one corner of the room, which was
further lighted up by a brilliant-hued Navajo
blanket, hung as a porti?re at one of the door-
ways. The home-made rag carpet, in its mod-
est propriety of coloring, caused the Western
villainy in wall-paper to wear a self-conscious
smirk. At the side window there was a burst
of color, where the lower sash pretended, not
very seriously, to be stained glass.
Such a spick-span conscience as I ye got
this morning, Margaret, he said, coming over
to her and taking her hands again, while he
looked down into her eyes, which she straight-
way dropped. There is nt an unswept corner
nor an undusted piece of furniture in it. I ye
had out all the couches, and had all the pic-
tures down, and gone in for a general house-
cleaning. The boys are safe and settled, both
of them, and in seven hours
Seven and a half, she corrected smil-
ingly, with the precision which seems never to
leave a woman who has once taught school.
Half, is it? To be sure; half-past four.
But everything must be whole this morning,
Margaret, like our happiness. Have you no-
ticed how every one feels responsible and
interested about this affair? They were all at
the windows as I rode up the street, or rather
they were behind the curtains, and I had to
try to look the disinterested morning caller on
my way to pay a sort of duty call. But they
saw through me. My foolish joy leaks through
my eyes, I suppose. Margaret dear, he asked,
taking her doubtful and feebly reluctant form
in his arms (for, even on the eve of her wed-
ding, the indomitable Puritan in her must have
its shamefaced way with her will), tell me,
does it distress you that I cant conceal it?
You are so much better at it. Let me see your
eyes. Come, you are not fair. Look up! And
then, as she tremulously took his glance for
a moment, he put back his big head, and
laughed greatly. I see; you were thinking
it: that it is unbecoming that they should be
laughing over our happiness indecorous
um unseemly. 0 Margaret, you are great
fun!
Am I ? she asked, with a shy smile, keep-
ing her eyes on the button she was twisting on
his coat.
Yes, yes, he cried through his laughter,
as he drew her to the sofa; you dont know
what you miss in not being able to enjoy your-
self. He caught her to him, and she hid her
head on his broad breast for happiness.
And with his arm about her he opened the
letter. Is nt it fine, dear, to know that Philip
is settled down and done for, before we begin
with each other, and that we need not fear for
him? Otherwise I should have felt as if I
were running away from him. I like to get this
letter from Jasper just at this time. Its only a
form, but it makes everything quite sure. I m
afraid we are too happy, he sighed, as he
glanced over the first lines of the letter; and
as he turned the page he looked up in a daze,
and could not believe that there had ever been
such a thing as happiness in the world. He
bit his lips, not to cry out.
Margaret watched him in silent fright as he
read on. A pallor deepened over his face. It
went, and he appeared to regain himself. But
the thought, whatever it was, seemed suddenly
to clutch him at the throat, and he buried his
face in his hands with a groan.
Margarets arms, for the first time of their
own motion, stole gently about him. And so
they sat for a long time in silence.
Once she said softly, I m so sorry, dear-
est. Questions, she saw, could not help him,
and she did not know how to say her sympa-
thy. She understood without words that Jas-
per had in some way played his father false,
and she yearned over the man who in a few
hours was to be her husband, with an awed
sense of what such a falsity must mean to him.
The letter shocked her when she read it,
but it could not sharpen her pain for him.
Jasper explained that he could not hold him- BENEFITS FORGOT 99
self bound by the understanding under which
his father apparently supposed him to have
taken a half share in the profits of the range,
and that he must decline to surrender to Philip
any share in it. He stood upon the articles
of partnership, giving him the rights of an equal
partner, for a term of years. The rest was
made up of phrases. He would be very glad
to offer his brother employment on the range;
would be most happy to afford him every~~
. . trusted that such an arrangement be-
tween them might be mutually . . . hoped
that this would be accepted in the spirit in
which...; was sure that his father must
feel that business is always business; and,
disclaiming any motive of greed or animosity,
begged him to believe that he remained his
most affectionate son.~~
Margaret did not dare look at the stricken
man beside her when she had finished this.
If he had only died! he moaned.
Oh, I know, James; I know! she murmured,
with an uncertain caress.
Do you, dear? He looked up dully.
Something vital seemed to have gone out of
him. His haggard look appalled her. She
shrank from it with a fluttering glance. No,
no, he said; you dont know. You should be
glad you cant. You must have cared fora child
in sickness and in health, and done things for
his sake, and been through all sorts of weather
with him, and scolded his badness, and loved
his lovableness, to know.
Of course, of course, whispered Margaret,
mechanically, because she could not find the
right words, if, in truth, there were any.
You can guess, dear, he said, and it s
good of you; but to know you ought to have
watched his growth, with its touching likeness
to your own growth; and have seen the little
armful of flesh, with the tiny, beating heart,
that you were once afraid you would stop
with a rough clasp, grow to be a man, with a
mans comfortable power over the world into
which he came so unknowinglyand with a
man s awful capacity for right and wrong. He
sighed. Yes, yes, he went on with a note of
bitterness; you must have done what you could
to help him to a place in the world, his voice
broke, and perhaps you ought really to have
been both father and mother to him, he added,
with the ghost of his smile: his friend, as you
stood in the place of his mother; his comrade,
as you were in fact his father, to know. Thank
heaven, you dont know, Margaret!
The patient desolation of his tone touched
her inexpressibly. She took his hand in both of
hers, studying it absently a moment, and one
might have thought she meant to raise it to her
lips; but, struggling against the tears in her
voice, she said, Ingratitude, though, James
is nt it much of a piece wherever you find it,
andand suffer from it? I can understand
that, I think. She paused, biting her lip for
self-control. Oh, it is cowardly! she broke
out. Does nt it seem so, dear? Cowardly
and brutal! Her arm slipped about him again,
as she searched for these blundering words of
helpfulness. She would have given the world
to reach and soothe the pang which she seemed
to herself to be merely moving about in a help-
less circle. The unyielding tradition in which
she had been nurtured, and which possessed
her less since she had let herself love him, but
which still was mistress of her, had never been
so irksome.
At the moment she longed to be the creature
of some sunnier land, the women of which do
not have to wonder how they shall comfort
those they love, who have a natural language
for affection. But the honesty in her would not
suffer her to express more than she could feel
instinctively. Whowho but a coward, she
went on chokingly, could wrong so unan-
swerably as ingratitude wrongs so far past
help, so deep beyond protest; so deep, deep
down that the mere thought of lifting a voice
against it is a misery, a nausea, a degradation!
He leaped up. Yes, yes, he cried, with
impatient energy; but one can act, must act
when the things past talk. Where did I leave
my hat, Margaret? He took her by both
shoulders, with a sudden impulse, and looked
for a moment into her eyes. She took fright
at his set face, in which, save the tenderness for
her, there was scarce anything of sanity.
Whatwhat are you going to do? she
asked, under her breath.
He clenched his hands, as he turned from
her, and caught up his hat, which lay on the
sofa. Oh, I dont know, my girl! I dont
know! My worst, I suppose.
He was flinging himself out of the door.
James! ~ she mirmured reproachfully. He
turned and kissed her. In an hour, he whis-
pered, and was gone before she could utter
one of all the pleadings that hung upon her
lips. She tremblingly watched him untie his
horse. Every movement of his hands was
charged with an angry energy that terrified her.
Her heart leaped in fear at the wrathful twitch
with which he loosed the knot that they had
been laughing at together twenty minutes
back; and she cowered at the ugly cut under
which the pony shrank, as Deed set off at a
gallop.
Was this the good, the gentle man she loved?
She put her hands to her eyes to shield them
from the memory of the look on his face, as he
parted with her. It was like the look of un-
reasonsuch a look as one recalls in explana-
tion of a terrible event, after it has befallen. 200 BENEFITS FORGOT~
II.
IT was rather more than an hour before he
returned, and Margaret had time to think of
many things. She trembled at the thought of
what he might be doing at any moment of her
watching, and waiting, and poking of the fire.
She recalled all that she knew of his hot and
reckless temper; she told over to herself all
that she had ever heard from others of the re-
lentless fixity with which he carried out a thing
on which he was resolved.
She knew sadly the quality of his temper, of
course; her experiences of it could hardly have
failed to be numerous and bitter, in the time
which had elapsed since she had known him.
It was the chief flaw in his character. In ac-
counting for it to herself, she said, when she
was not fresh from suffering from some mani-
festation of it, that no doubt it went along in-
evitably with his generous and impulsive heart.
She was ignorant about such things, and about
men in general, but she had never known any
one so entirely good, and kind, and open-
hearted, and she told herself it was not for her
to measure or question the correlative fault that
must always go with a great virtue like that.
She had moments of grave doubt about this,
of course, and her doubt had been a minor rea-
son among the controlling ones which had~
caused her to refuse him at first. When she
finally discovered that she loved him, it did nt
matter; nothing seemed to matter then. She
now thought of his temper as one of the things
she would set herself to modify or, rather,
to help him about when they were married.
What was marriage for, if not for some such
mutual strengthening and improvement?
Something Vertner had told her when she
first came, and at which she had laughed at
the time, recurred to her. It still made her
smile, but in a frightened way. Vertner had
heard it in Leadville. It was apropos of the
grim strength of purpose which every one felt
in Deed. Some one had come to a young
lawyer there, to offer him a case in which
Deed was engaged on the other side, and had
been asked to come off! Aint you got
more sense, inquired the practitioner, expres-
sively, than to take half a day out of a ten-
dollar-a-day job to come and set me on to
Deed in a case where he s got the ghost of a
show? Never saw him grip his fist, like that,
in a court of law, did you? Thought not.
Must is must about that time, young man.
There aint no two ways to a burros kick. I ye
been there. In fact, I was there day before yes-
terday. Beaten? No, sir; I was nt beaten. I
was cyclonized. I was taken up by the toes of
my boots, and swung round and round with one
of the prettiest rotary motions you ever saw,
and banged against the top of Uncompaghre
Peak, out there. No one but myself would
have thought it worth while to pick up what
was left of me, I suppose. But I did it; and
I picked up too much sense at the same time
to try it again. Why, that man s got more
knowledge of the law, and more raw grit, and
hang on, and stick to n he questioned the
air with uplifted arm for a companson
well, he ended hopelessly. Ill tell you
what it is, he went on, with renewed grip of
language; for them that likes monkeying with
the buzz-saw, there aint nothing like it, short of
breaking a faro-bank. It s strawberries and
cream to that sort. But to peaceably disposed
citizens like you and me, Charlie, there aint
nothing at all, anywhere, like staying pleasantly
and sociably to home, and letting the saw hum
its merry little way through the other fellows
fingers.~~
From time to time Margaret would go to
the window, and look wistfully down the road.
The expression on her round, shrewd, sugges-
tive, wise little face at these times would have
helped an observer to understand the look
which made her seem older than her twenty-
nine years; it was the authoritative look of ex-
perience. The look of over-experience that
sometimes fixes itself, to the sadness of the be-
holder, on the face of a woman who has been
down into the fight for bread with men, had
passed by Margarets inextinguishable woman-
liness; but she had not led an easy life; and
one saw it in her face a face proportioned
with a harmony that strangely failed to make
it beautiful.
Her eyes, which were small and bright, were
deeply set under a high and well-modeled brow,
from which the hair was brushed straight back
in a way that must have been unbecoming to
another type of face, but which was admirably
suited to her own. In falling over her shapely
little ears, the silky brown hair waved in a
fashion pleasant to see. Her mouth, which was
small and daintily made, wore an expression
of unusual firmness.
In conversation she would fix her animated
hazel eyes in absorbed attention on the face of
the person with whom she spoke, and when the
talk was of serious things, a deep, far-away
look would suddenly possess these eyes. She
had an extraordinarily sweet smile, and there
was a gentle and kindly soberness in her ex-
l)ression. She was well and compactly made,
yet her effect was unimposing. She seemed
short and slight. She had a well-kept little ef-
fect in her dress and the appointments of her
person; but no one would have accused Mar-
garet of knowing anything about dress. She
was rather discreetly clothed than dressed in
the sense of adornment. She wore white cuffs BENEFITS FORGOT. 201
at her wrists and a narrow collar at her throat,
fastened by a brooch of gold wrought in an
old-fashioned pattern.
Margaret was not smiling when Beatrice
came in, some time after Deed had gone, and
found her with her head pressed against the
pane. She turned her tearful face away as
Beatrice drew her to her.
Mrs. Vertner, one saw, had been quite re-
cently a pretty woman, and she was still young
a year or two younger than Margaret. The
brilliant expression which had distinguished
her among all her acquaintance in her young
girl days in Newton (the Boston Newton),
where she was still remembered as a clever girl
who had made an inexplicable marriage, was
overlaid, for the most part, by a look of anxiety
and harassment, due to the conditions of her
life. She made her housekeeping as little a
sordid, crude, and ugly business as she could,
and took its difficulties light-heartedly; but
housekeeping in a Western town that has still
to get its growth is at best a soul-wearing
affair. Just now she suffered under the rule of
a Swedish maid-servant who knew no English,
and whose knowledge of cooking was limited
to a fine skill in broiling steak insupportably,
and a vain address in the brewing of undrink-
able coffee.
Crying, little one? she asked affection-
ately. XVont you do something a wee bit like
some one else, dear, one of these days, and let
me be by to see it? That s a good girl.
She kissed her, with a laugh. But stay odd
all the rest of the time, Margaret. I should nt
like you if you were nt odd, you knownot
even if you were ever so little less odd. If I
want you to be conventional, it is only for a
moment, to see how it would seem. Come!
Other brides smile. Try one smile! she
pleaded. And at Margarets helpless amuse-
ment, she snatched her from the window, and,
humming a vague air, which defined itself in
a moment as one of the Waldteufel waltzes, she
beat time for a second, laughing in Margarets
bewildered, tear-stained face, and caught her
away into a romping dance.
There! she cried, as she sank upon the
sofa, breathless with laughing and dancing.
I ye shaken you into sorts, I hope, and
you re ready for the ceremonyor will be, if
you 11 ever get yourself dressed. Not that I
call it dressed, to wear that gray oh, I dont
mean that, Maggie dear, she exclaimed at a
pained look on Margarets face. She crushed
Margaret to her in a devouring embrace.
Or, rather, I do, she added honestly; but
I did nt mean to say it. No; you d better
wear it, she went on, at some sign of hesita-
tion from Margaret. It will go beautifully
with all the rest of it. Margaret Derwenter,
she cried, with an affectation of seriousness,
shall I tell you something? You will never
be married. She retired for the effect, but
fell upon her with all the armory of womans
peacemaking at Margarets start. Literal!
she cried. Will you never take things less
hard? As if I meant it! What I did mean
sounds foolish after you ye taken it like that.
But I may as well say it. I dont believe the
marriage ceremony is going to marry you as
it does other women, Margaret; and you
need nt tell me it is. If you are ever married,
it will be by yourself; yes, I mean itby a
kind of slow process of consent to the affair.
Of course you will have a proper respect for the
ceremony, and you will think it has married
you. But women like you, Maggie, not that
there are any, are not married in that way.
Now, I was married when I left the church,
and everybody knew it.
Margaret laughed, not on compulsion this
time, and, catching her arm about Beatrice~ s
waist, drew her to the window to look down the
road with her for Deeds coming.
Almost any part of Margarets history, be-
fore the time when she began to teach, and,
by a curious arrangement of her own, to see
the world, must wrong, or at least misspeak,
in the telling the gentle and sweet-natured
woman she had become.
IFrom the first she had ideas; and it would
be hard to say what one must call the ambi-
tion which gave purpose and meaning to her
young days. From the point of view of her
grandmothers farm-house on a bleak New
England hill, the pursuit of what she called
culture represented to Margaret during these
days an inspiration, an intellectual stimulus, and
a rule of life. It would be a quarrelsome per-
son who would not suffer any one to get what
fun he might out of the idea of culture for
cultures angular dear sake; and as an alter-
native to the apjAes and cider, the mite-socie-
ties, the socials, and the lectures which in
winter stand for mental diversion in the back
country of New England, it has advantages.
But if some one said that the theory of life
which it implies lacks ease, atmosphere, curves,
lacks even, to say the worst of it at once, the
sense of humor, only one who had a great
many such New England winters in him ought
to say a word.
Margaret, in her pursuit of this mystic cul-
ture, conceived education to be, until her edu-
cation was done, an affair possessing length,
breadth, and thickness. It is to be feared that
she even improved her opportunities. They
were not many, poor girl, until she left the New
Hampshire village for her first stay in New
York, where she studied at a school in which
she spent a year learning that she was the only 202 BENEFITS FORGOT.
pupil who regarded its advantages as precious
privileges. Then she left it for Vassar, which
was, at least; not touched with sham. She found
here other girls with her thought about educa-
tion; and she went about the erection of her
structure of intelligence with an energy which
presently sent her home to her grandmother
ill. The structure remained her point after her
return, however; and the reader who knows
anything of this habit of thought should not
need to be told th4t she looked upon it, not as
a dwelling that she should one day inhabit,
much less as a temple which should one day
inhabit her, but as a shrine the graceful propor-
tions of which it was the final privilege to set
forever within ones blessed sight. At nineteen
Margaret was more in the way to becoming
that distressing product of our felic